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POEMS 



MRS. ANNIE LANMAN ANGIER 



Wiltl flowers from my lieart's garden, 

I fling tliem to the wind: 
May human bees, on every leaf, 

A drop of honey find. 



BOSTON 
A. WILLIAMS AND COMPANY 

©Iti Corner Boofestorc 

1883 







Copyright, 

1882, 

By Anxie Lanman ANorEK. 



All rirjhts reserved. 



ELECTEOTYPED. 

BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, 

No. 4 Peakl Stkket. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

My Muse 1 

Dkops of Honey 4 

Bubbles 5 

Harps and Hearts 7 

The Death of Moses 9 

The Martyr 11 

The Ocean's Dead 13 

Life's Similes 16 

A Mother's Prayer 18 

The Old Maid 19 

In Twenty Years 25 

Angel Whispers 27 

Gather the Roadside Flowers 29 

Give us Sympathy 31 

Spero Meliora 33 

Live Like the Angels 35 

Be Lovely 37 

• Song for the Flail 39 

Thy Will be Done 41 

Rabboni 42 

Hope's Song of Patience 44 

Half a Loaf is better than no Bread ... 45 

norah nohone 47 

Epithalamium 49 

The Ruminal Fig Tree 50 



IV CONTENTS. 

The Treasure Trove 52 

Mt World 53 

Trials a Blessing 56 

Everything Speaks to Me 58 

Tassed On 60 

Faith 63 

■The Heart's Garden 66 

Counsels 67 

Go, Tell it to Jesus 69 

Silence Speaking 70 

A Farewell to Youth 71 

Sunny Spots 73 

Christmas Carol 75 

Our Rose 77 

Watch and Wait 78 

Meet Me in Heaven 80 

Guardian Angels 82 

Our Secret 84 

Just Seventeen 86 

Heart Yearnings 88 

The Berry Harvest 90 

Fear Not 92 

The Child Seers 94 

Some One is Prating for Me 96 

My Wee Bit Sang 97 

The Dying Husband to his Wife .... 98 

A Vision 100 

Something for Somebody 102 

Bay View 103 

Our Birthday's 105 

Name Not the Dead 107 

The Walk to Emmaus 109 

A Dream 113 

After the Storm 115 



t-: 



CONTENTS. V 

How Do I TniNK of Thee? 116 

The Sacrifice of Elijah 117 

Courage 119 

Little Nothings 122 

Ode to Robert Burns 124 

Song of the Disenchanted 126 

NoRAH and the Angels 129 

The Blind Mother 131 

Tears 133 

Spells 135 

Saint Agnes 137 

Song of the Contented One 140 

ESTELLE 143 

The Old-Fashioned Fire 144 

The Broken Lyre and the Key . . . ,146 

The Good Time Come 148 

The Riddle Solved 151 

Song of Peace 154 

The Dead 155 

Why Should I Stay ? 157 

The Old Hearth-Rug 159 

Live by the Day 162 

Her Birthday in Heaven 164 

Beautiful Incident 166 

A Mystery 168 

The Mount 169 

The Emigrant's Grave 171 

Venus 173 

Not My Way, Lord 175 

My Dove 177 

The Prison Born 179 

Wonderings 181 

Only Listen 183 

A Foe and a Friend 185 



Vi CONTENTS. 

The Circassian Slave 187 

The ISIaniac's Song 190 

Little Follies 193 

My Mentor 195 

Song for Thanksgiving 197 

Song of the Voices 200 

Fancy and Fact 202 

The Answer 205 

A Eeverie 207 

Melody of Nature 209 

King Death 211 

Natal Song ...... . . 214 

J. B. F. (April 11) 215 

Life's Duties 217 

The Veiled Hope 218 

The Tree's Lesson 220 

A Carol for Time 223 

Glimpses 226 

My Song 228 

In Memoriam 230 

Questionings 231 

Mizpah 234 

Which is Best ? 236 

If Thou Knewest 238 

Euthanasia 240 

Pedigree . . 243 



POEMS 




POEMS. 



MY MUSE. 

I QUIETLY sit, with my work on my knee, 
When a, sweet little songster comes singing to me ; 
I hear not her wings, but I hear a soft voice, 
And my needle flies quickly ; my heart cries, 

rejoice ; 
My burdens grow lighter, my spirit more free, 
While this kind little songster is sinsi-ins; to me. 



But who is this singer — can any one tell? 

Of what hue is her plumage, and where doth she 

dwell? 
She seems to be near, but I see not her form ; 
Pier notes, they ai'e welcome in sunlight or storm ; 
Yet in vain do I seek her in cage or on tree ; 
Say, who can this warbler, this sweet warbler be ? 



2 POEMS. 

How varied lier themes ! One moment she sings 
Of honey-drops, bubbles, and all such bright 

things ; 
Then she changes her tune ; more plaintive her 

moan, 
Of life's disenchantments, and youth's visions 

flown — 
How holy each lesson ! good and true she must be, 
The friend, who is ever thus singing to me. 

I welcome her presence, as welcomes the flower 
The soft breath of summer, the dew and the 

shower ; 
Should these be withheld, every blossom must 

die, 
And my heart would grow sad, should this sweet 

singer fly. 
So I watch for her coming, as waiteth the bee 
For the first rose of June, — she brings June to me. 

Then say, is there no one who kindly will tell 
The name of this sibyl who weaveth her spell 
O'er all things around me, beneath me, above. 
And warbles sweet music wherever I rove — 
And breathes over all a moral so pure — 
Hark ! a soft voice replies — 'tis an angel, I'm 
sure. 



MY MUSE. 3 

Yes, my muse is an angel, no mortal hath skill 

Thus to play on my heart-harp, and tune it at 
will 

To strains which can strengthen, and solace, and 
cheer, 

Bid the face beam with smiles, check the fast- 
falling tear. 

Since my songster a friend from the skies j^roves 
to be, 

No more need I ask — who is sinsinsr to me ? 



DROPS OF HONEY. 

Dkops of honey — let them fall 
From the lip and from the pen ; 

Scatter them at sorrow's call, 

Stay not, asking where or when ? 

Let them fall, these droj^s of honey, 

The poor need them, who've no money. 

Drops of honey — hmnan bees 
Cluster round us, daily craving 

Just one drop, a sweet heart's-ease. 
For him who life's storm is bi-aving. 

Then let fall these drops of honey, 

They may prize them who have money. 

Drops of honey — kindly words, 
Haste to breathe them every hour ; 

Sweeter than the song of birds. 

Rich and poor both feel their power. 

And all can give these drops of honey, 

Which some hearts value more than money. 



BUBBLES. 

There are blowers of bubbles, whose names 

might be told, 
Did we not deem it wiser the same to withhold ; 
Since the sport which so pleases in life's early 

stage, 
A charm hath for manhood, for youth, and for 

age. 

A grave joolitician blows bubbles so large. 
They float o'er his mind like some gay Venice 

barge ; 
While a shrewd-looking captain sits guiding the 

helm, 
Who smiles as he sees himself peer of the realm. 

The scene is soon changed to a sorrowful sight, 
That bubble has burst, every smile of last night 
Has gone from the lip, like the stars from the 

sky — 
There is naught left the blower but one wish — 

to die. 



6 POEMS. 

Some bubbles there are which float longer in air, 
While most only linger a brief second there ; 
Each bursting at length, there only remains 
A bitter reward for our labor and pains. 

Thus all blow their bubbles, and all see them 

burst 
Like those which in childhood we blew at the 

first ; 
But something is gained, for a moral was found 
Where our first bubbles broke on touching the 

ground. 

The lesson is this — let your aims be so high 
That naught this side heaven shall the soul 

satisfy ; 
Then so far above earth will your strong bubbles 

rise, 
They shall bear up their blowers — nor burst in 

the skies. 



HARPS AND HEARTS. 

There are harps in our breasts 

Of most delicate make, 
And many the tones which are heard ; 

Now plaintive, now gay, 

Now so soft is their lay. 
The notes seem like those of a bird. 

These harps God has tuned. 

Though broken they seem, 
They respond to their Maker's command ; 

And mortals, too, play them, 

Words, deeds, and looks sway them, 
A breath hath these instruments fanned. 

Our hearts are these harps — 

How sweet are their strains 
When sympathy touches the chords ; 

Then such melody's given, 

'Tis echoed in heaven, 
Though whispered on earth are the words. 



POEMS. 

Then strike these harps daily, 

By deed, look, and Av^ord ; 
Hearts around iis are sighing for aid ; 

And since some are sad, 

Whom a word can make glad, 
Say, shall not the kind word be said? 

Though countless the stars. 

Heart-harps are not less, 
They are playing below and above ; 

But wherever they be, 

They have one master-key — 
And the name of that one key is love. 



THE DEATH OF MOSES. 

How stately his step, and how princely liis mien, 
A conqueror's form on IVIount Nebo is seen ; 
No weapon he bears, though liis foe is a king, 
The dark King of Terrors, with broad, sable 
wing. 

Where monarchs have trembled, and heroes have 

quailed. 
His footstep ne'er faltered, his faith never 

failed ; 
He thought of the rock, and the bush, and the 

rod, 
Gave his flesh to the dust, and his sj^irit to God. 

On his brow the cold dewdrops are gatliering 

fast. 
His pulses beat slow, one more throb, 'tis the 

last ; 
He heeds not that struggle, for angels are near 
To bear him in triumi^h far, far from all fear. 



10 POEMS. 

He fell not by pestilence, famine, or sword, 
The dart from Death's quiver was, " Thus saith 

the Lord : " 
All power of the tyrant was broken and slain 
By Him who once died, but now liveth again. 

For us in life's desert, life's wilderness road, 
From the bare, flinty rock hath no crystal stream 

flowed ? 
Hath no rod of chastisement budded and blown ? 
Through no burning bush hath our Father's face 

shone ? 

Then let the stern messenger come when he will, 
On land or broad ocean, in valley, on hill ; 
We'll welcome the mandate to Moses once given. 
Yield flesh to the dust, and the spirit to heaven. 



THE MARTYR. 

Not only is the martyr one 

Who seals his faith with fight ; 
Who yields his life without a groan, 

When battling for the right ; 
The anxious heart a martyr is, 

The soul cast down with fear. 
Lest some who should the truth receive 

The truth refuse to hear. 

A martyr will the sooner bear 

To feel the scorching flame, 
Or rack that waits his flesh to tear, 

Than yield to wrong or shame ; 
The seeming martyr will conceal 

Those secrets of the mind, 
Which Pleaven may to the sight reveal. 

As light breaks on the blind ; 

The rea? martyr will not hide 

The sacred rays of truth ; 
He'll brave the scorn, contempt, and i)ride 

Of old age and of youth. 



12 POEMS. 

He only asks the cause to see 

Why honest thought should shrink, 

To side with one, whoe'er he be, 
That dares to speak and think. 

Then be a martyr-si^irit thine 

Which aims the age to guide ; 
That bids the sun of Progress shine. 

And seeks no wrong to hide ; 
But be thy weapons gentle words. 

Thy shield, a heart that's brave ; 
No spot more sacred blesses earth 

Than the humble martyr's grave. 



THE OCEAN'S DEAD. 

Who with a careless hand would rend 

The veil of mystery ; 
And have unfolded to his view 

The secrets of the sea ? 

The waters foam and dash, then rest 

As calmly as before ; 
And leave no shadow of a wreck 

Of what they proudly bore. 

But precious things we know are hid 

Beneath the ocean wave ; 
And costly pearls and gems bedeck 

The mermaid's shining cave ; 

But treasures richer far than these 

Are buried in the sea ; 
Loved ones, whose names we fondly keep 

Green in our memory. 

There, in one cradle-bed are rocked 
The mother and her child : 



14 POEMS. 

They heed no more the tempest's shock 
Or billows dashing wild. 

There sleeps the sire whose head was bowed 

Beneath the weight of years, 
Whose furrowed cheek the traces wore 

Of cares, and griefs, and tears. 

The blooming maiden lately decked 

For bridal and for ball ; 
A blue wave is her winding-sheet. 

The rolling surf her i^all. 

And manhood, to whose beaming eye 

The future brightly shone. 
There lies in dreamless slumber locked, 

Hope's fairy visions flown. 

The haughty monarch and his slave, 
They sleep there, side by side ; 

One has his sorrows all forgot, 
The other all his pride. 

The noble from his princely hall. 

The peasant from his cot, 
On the same pillow rest their heads. 

And share one common lot. 



THE OCEAN'S DEAD. 15 

The pen of man may freely trace 

The story of the land ; 
But who thy mystery, O Sea, 

Can fully understand ? 

O Deep ! thy fearful history 

"Will never all be read, 
Till He who sees thy darkest caves 

Shall wake thy countless dead. 



LIFE'S SIMILES. 

! Life should be like some sweet dream — 
Thoughts, words, and deeds should flow. 

As wave meets wave on some clear stream 
Whose surface shows no rocks below. 

O ! Life should be like some fair flower — 

Whose sweet breath cheers the saddened heart, 

Whose welcome fragrance hath the power 
To soothe our griefs, and hoj^e impart. 

O ! Life should be like some song-bird, 
That loves to greet us with its lay ; 

That asks but only to be heard 
While singing gayly on his way. 

O ! Life should be like some bright rill, 
That waters deserts, else how drear ; 

Whose verdant margin shows it still 

Hath ceaseless flowed the scene to cheer. 



LIFE'S SIMILES. 17 

O ! Life should be like some fixed star, 
That shines not with a wavering light ; 

But points the wayworn traveller far 
Beyond the gloom of this world's night. 

Since Life should be like dream, flower, rill, 
Like song-bird and like fixed star ; 

Let each his holy task fulfil, 

And human hearts shall wear no scar. 

Then be our daily life like this — 
And Death will but a friend appear; 

A white-robed messenger of bliss, 
To bear us to a brighter sphere. 



A MOTHER'S PRATER. 

Maker I Saviour! Father! Friend! 
Thine ear to my petition lend, 
And let the holy Three in One 
Vouchsafe to guide and bless my son. 
For him I ask not fame or wealth, 
Xor length of days, nor even health ; 
These are but fleeting boons of earth, 
Though valued much, they're little worth 
Far higher blessings would I crave 
For him — a hope beyond the grave. 
That when on life's rough ocean driven 
His anchor-hold may ne'er be riven ; 
That wings of love may shield my child 
When storms are raging fierce and wild ; 
That rays of light may beam on him 
When faith is weak and sight grows dim ; 
That all may wiser, better be. 
By his example led to thee ; 
His time thus spent, fulfilled Life's task. 
Then orrant him heaven — 'tis all I ask. 



THE OLD MAID. 

"I never join in the cry against the nohle sisterhood; but 
rather echo Sharon Turner's benediction, ' Heaven bless old 
maids.' " 

A PORTRAIT. 

I sixG of modest worth, of talent too, 

Of virtues many, and of foibles few ; 

Or, if jiossessed, it cannot be denied 

That e'en her " failings leaned to virtue's side." 

She lived a maiden, and a maid she died, 
This was a fact she never sought to hide ; 
Why should she blush to see her name enrolled 
With Leslie, Bremer, Sedgwick, and Miss Gould, 

And Mary Lyon, who with lamblike heart 
In all life's duties meekly bore her part ? 
Such single women long shall live in story 
While many a wife may sigh in vain for glory. 



20 P0EM8. 

She dwelt in a small town, 'tis now a city — 
That time will work such changes, more's the 

pity — 
Alas ! for romance, when the conquering car 
Of Progress doth such quiet beauty mar. 

Now, if at sunset through some shady grove 
Young maidens with their lovers chance to 

rove 
To some sequestered spot, they're sure to hear 
A factory wheel or locomotive near. 

Dost ask this old friend's name? Guess what 

you will — 
A flower still blooms, exhales its fragrance still, 
Though we should call it violet, daisy, rose, 
Or any plant which in our garden grows, 

We called her Fanny, and in days of yore 
She might have numbered suitors half a score, 
If bright blue eyes and cheeks of rosy hue 
Have any power man's hard heart to subdue. 

In early life she learned the useful art, 
A dress to make, from this she " took a start ; " 
And daily went for fifty years her round. 
Till all confessed her good works did abound. 



THE OLD MAID. 21 

For she, like Dorcas, coats and garments made, 
(Kind angels deign to smile upon the trade), 
And now that Fanny walks no more below, 
Those whom she served, her "coats and gar- 
ments show." 

But not alone her fingers were employed — 
Her mind well stored, no useless trash e'er 

cloyed ; 
She sparkling waters drew from Truth's deep well, 
As all who heard her talk could quickly tell. 

Of jjriest and sage, of poet grave or gay. 
Historian, artist, she could "say her say ;" 
Their gems of thought her mental storehouse 

graced, 
Once entered there, no line could be erased. 

In politics she sided with the right. 

Her " sober second thought " ne'er shunned the 

light ; 
In heart a j^atriot, she could brave a host. 
Though calm, stern, silent as was Banquo's ghost. 

In church, no less than State, she had her 

choice — • 
The good old prayer-book did her heart rejoice ; 



22 POEMS. 

Her faitli was simple, and her soul sincere, 
Her trust the merits of a Saviour dear. 

She never prated much of "woman's right," 
Of spirit-rappings, which weak souls affright ; 
The law sustained, nor did that code contemn 
Which bids us jiraise the good, the bad condemn. 

She bore no malice, but was gentle-souled, 
Though some the story tell that she could scold ; 
If graceless urchin from her work-room drew 
Her scissors, thread, bag, pincushion, or threw 

Her pieces round, or snarled her basting-thread — 
That child must straightway from the room be led, 
Reproved, chastised, till Avith repentance meek 
It sought a kiss of pardon on its cheek. 

And then the culprit, it must be confessed, 
Was always in the Avrong, for " she knew best ; " 
As all unmarried folks the world can show 
What children should, and what they should 
not do. 

Her own neat wardrobe cost her little thought. 
She toiled for others, planned, contrived, and 
wrouo;ht : 



TEE OLD MAID. 23 

In her trained fingers many a dress has grown 
From scanty jjattern, which fact, if not known, 

Would jnake the wearer own the magic skill 
Which could, from almost nothing, at her will. 
Evolve a Sunday gown, with " pieces good to 

mend," 
In case this wondrous garment chanced to rend. 

She met life's changes with undaunted heart. 
With customs old and tried would seldom part ; 
But fifty cents a day would she receive, 
Though on it many said they could not live. 

I say she abjured changes, could not stand 
The thouglit of railroad passing through her land ; 
Yet freely did she yield tlie clierished right 
Tliat no one else should suffer, though she might. 

Had this good dame been selfish, ne'er would she 
Have shared the treasures of that apple-tree, 
Which for a hundred years, beside her door, 
Did on the ground its golden treasures j^our. 

That old tree stood apart, no friendly neighbor 

near — 
For others leaved and blossomed, year by year ; 



24 POEMSy 

Its solitude forgot, while bright things played, 
Birds in its branches, children in its shade. 

The tree has died, and she has passed away. 
Both served their generation and their day ; 
And now, when modest worth and talent too 

we see. 
Our thoughts, good maiden Fanny, ever turn to 

thee. 



Let each the mission high fulfil — 
Go forth and labor, weary never — 

The field's the world, good deeds the seed, 
And harvest time shall be forever ! 



IN TWENTY YEARS. 

Ix twenty years, ah ! twenty years — 
Be calm, be brave, bid back tliy tears. 
These cankering cares, corroding fears, 
Will cease to vex in twenty years ; 
In twenty years, ah ! twenty years, 
In less, perhaps, than twenty years. 

Where are the bitter grief and woe 
That thine were in the long ago? 
Their memory dim and vague appears, 
'Twill dimmer seem in twenty years : 
In twenty years, ah ! twenty years, 
In less, perhaps, than twenty years. 

The tongue that stung with venomed word. 

No more in hate or love is stirred ; 

And hands that once aimed poisoned dart 

May powerless lie on pulseless heart. 

In twenty years, ah ! twenty years. 

In less, i:)erhaps, than twenty years. 



26 POEMS. 

Would'st learn the happiest way to live ? 
Thy ills forget, thy wrongs forgive ; 
Think on them as will one day seem 
Thy whole of life — a checkered dream 
In twenty years, ah ! twenty years, 
In less, perhaps, than twenty years. 

Our Father's home hath " no more sea ; " 
There mansion fair is waiting thee — 
Thy bark e'en now the bright shore nears, 
It moored may be in twenty years : 
In twenty years, ah ! twenty years, 
In less, perhaps, than twenty years. 



ANGEL WHISPERS. 

Birdie's nest is full of snow, 
But she left it long ago ; 
How did little birdie know ? 

Did the watching angels say — 
Here it is not safe to stay, 
Gentle birdie, fly away ? 

Did they tell her storms will come. 
Laying waste the pleasant home ; 
Making birdie's nest a tomb ? 

WhisiDCred they of clime more fair, 
Soft blue sky and balmy air ? 
Birdie sings now sweetly there. 

Angel one, that art to be, 
What do voices say to thee. 
When thou bowest head and knee ? 



28 POEMS. 

Banish anxious care and feaj*, 
Check tlie murmur, dry the tear, 
Be thy watchwords hope and clieer. 

Brood not o'er the cold, dead past, 
In the bright beyond tliou hast 
Summer that shall always last. 

Earth-built nests will fill with snow, 
God's time is the best to go ; 
And the whispering angels know. 



Time brings to all cares, sorrows, fears, 
And private griefs, and secret tears; 
But God's heart pities, his ear hears, 
And each life-bark the haven nears ! 



GATHER THE ROADSIDE FLOWERS. 

O ! GATHER the roadside flowers, 
Though life be a thorny way ; 
There spring at our feet, 
With fragrance sweet. 
Bright blossoms wherever we stray ; 
Then gather the roadside flowers, 
O ! gather the roadside flowers. 

O ! gather tlie roadside flowers, 
A word, a look, a smile ; 
These all can give, 
'Tis the way to live. 
Our toils and our ills to beguile : 
Then gather the roadside flowers, 
O ! gather the roadside flowers. 

O ! gather the roadside flowers, 
Of Hope, and Trust, and Love ; 
Tend them with care. 
For fruit they bear 



30 POEMS. 

In the gardens of God above : 
Tlien gather the roadside flowers, 
O ! gather the roadside flowers. 

O ! gatlier the roadside flowers, 
Not long may we linger here ; 
For shining bands. 
With outstretched hands. 
Are calling in words of cheer — 
Come, gather our roadside flowers, 
Then gather the roadside flowers, 
O ! oather the roadside flowers. 



GIVE US SYMPATHY. 

This is the cry from every heart, 

In cottage and in hall ; 
It comes up from the busy mart, 

'Tis echoed in the ball ; 
When smiles are dancing on the face, 

And feet trip o'er the floor, 
We hear this cry from every heart, 

If we listen at its door. 

From lips of lonely widow, 

From some despairing wife ; 
From trembling age, and manhood, too, 

In the dusty paths of life ; 
From merchant at his ledger. 

From maiden at her task ; 
From statesman, and from preacher grave, 

Though all may wear a mask, 

To hide this earnest craving. 

This yearning of the breast ; 
This longing for the unattained. 

This burden of unrest : 



32 POEMS. 

From each soul's inner chamber 
Comes forth the ceaseless cry — 

But give us sympathy, we live, 
Withhold it, and we die. 

'Tis like the gentle dew and sun 

On tender grass and flower ; 
Like hope to the despairing one 

In sorrow's darkest hour ; 
An anchor to the mariner 

Upon life's stormy sea ; 
A star, whose light will brighter shine 

Throughout eternity. 

Thrice haj^py they who heed the call. 

And yield the boon thus sought ; 
'Tis in this way that we obey 

The holy precept taught. 
And bearing others' burdens, 

We lighter make our own — 
Earth will be more like heaven 

When this is better known. 



SPERO MELIORA. 

(I hope better things.) 

Spero Meliora ! though trouble be near, 
This motto the sorrow-bowed spirit can cheer ; 
Spero Meliora — this watchword will give 
Fresh courage to labor, new motive to live. 

Spero Meliora ! when billows run high, 

From thy tempest-tossed ark bid Hope's messen- 
ger fly ; 

And she will return with a green branch of 
peace. 

Sure pledge that the storm is beginning to cease. 

Spero Meliora ! the promise of good, 
Was writ in the rainbow o'erarching the flood. 
A light in the cloud could the old prophet see. 
What that sign was to him be this motto to 
thee. 

Spero Meliora ! this watchword hath power 
To nerve for the struggle in trial's dark hour ; 



34 POEMS. 

Spero Meliora — then banish despair. 
Give thy fears to the winds, for life's battle 
prej^are. 

Spero Meliora ! an anchor will prove 
On our voyage through time to the haven above ; 
And Spero Meliora — our motto shall be, 
When we launch our frail bark on eternity's sea. 



LIVE LIKE THE ANGELS. 

Go, glide like a sunbeam through cottage and 

hall, 
With heart-cheer for each, and a blessing for all ; 
And seek out the sad ones, when over Hope's 

tomb 
Lean sorrow-bowed mourners in silence and 

gloom. 

Olasp childhood's soft hand, teach the selfish and 

rude 
That best of all lessons, the way to be good ; 
The footsteps of age in meek tenderness lead. 
Prove friend to the friendless in time of their 

need. 

Bid wayward youth penitent, tearfully turn 
To Virtue, mild mentor, wise lessons to learn ; 
How the tempted and tried may in triumph defy 
The soft syren Vice, with her basilisk eye. 



36 POEMS. 

Should sickness and want, twin daughters of 

woe, 
A dwelling invade, with tread stealthy and slow, 
O ! there be thou found, like an angel of love, 
To whisper sweet thoughts of a bright home 

above. 

Let good-will to all be the theme of thy song. 
For justice and truth be thou valiant and strong ; 
To aims high and holy each energy given. 
This, this is to live like the angels in heaven. 

Then seek out the sad ones, when over Hope's 

tomb 
Lean sorrow-bowed mourners in silence and 

gloom ; 
And glide like a sunbeam through cottage and 

liall. 
With heart-cheer for each, and a blessing for all. 



BE LOVELY. 

" If man, or woman either, wishes to realize the full power of 
personal beauty, it must be by cherishing noble hopes and pur- 
poses, by having something to do, and something to live for, 
which is worthy of humanity, and which, by expanding the 
capacities of the soul, gives expansion and symmetry to the body 
— T. C. Upham. 

I SPEAK not of features, of figm-e, or skin, 
But of beauty of soul, which beams from within ; 
It shines in the face of the maiden and sage. 
And lights uj) the brow of manhood and age ; 
When the banner of Love o'er the heart is 

unfurled. 
And the fervent " God bless you " is breathed 

for the world. 

Though the form may be bowed, and whitened 

the hair. 
The cheek may be furrowed with traces of care ; 
Though the eye lose its lustre, the voice its 

sweet tone, 
All the charms of life's morning be faded and 

flown ; 
Thou still raay'st be lovely, be lovely to all. 
If the kind benediction from heart and lip fall. 



38 POEMS. 

Be lovely — when duty to God and to men 
Is cheerfully done, and we cease to complain ; 
When the sj^irit at peace with its Maker can 

say — 
I have not a wish but Thy will to obey ; 
When all shall thus live, but to scatter good 

seed, 
Then will each human being be lovely indeed. 



v^ 



SONG FOR THE FLAIL. 



A SONG for the flail, the smooth-handled flail, 
As stroke after stroke it comes down ; 

While golden grains fly, wheat, barley, and rye, 
The toil of the farmer to crown. 

The useful and useless he thus will divide. 

And gathering each in their turn. 
The former with care, for the garner he'll S23are, 

The latter he'll scatter or barn. 

And what is earth more than a 2:rand threshino;- 
floor. 

With the wrong and the right thickly strewn ? 
But Truth's iron flail them both shall assail. 

To the winds then shall Falsehood be thrown. 

Should Adversity's flail thy spirit assail. 
Bid welcome the Love-guided blow ; 

Be every stroke heeded, not one falls unneeded, 
Our idols to shatter, our pride to lay low. 



40 POEMS. 

Oil ! not to destroy, the flail I employ — 
Far sweeter this voice than the birds 

To the Husbandman dear, the wheat need not 
fear — 
Heart-cheering and i)recious the words. 

Then a song for the flail, the smooth-handled 
flail-— 
And a song for the laborer, too ; 
For while threshing his grain, he has threshed 
out, 'tis plain, 
A moral for me and for you. 



THY WILL BE DONE. 

Thy will be done — yes, Father, be it so, — 
What thougli thy hand be raised to strike the blow? 
Close, closer to Thy side Thy child would press. 
My eyes to Thee upturned, in my distress — 
Thy will be done. 

Thy will be done. Physician, give the cup, — 
Since Love hath mixed it, let me drink it up ; 
The bitter draught to me new strength will give, 
With courage nerve, for Thee alone to live. 
Thy will be done. 

Thy will be done. Good Shepherd, lead thy sheep 
Through thorny vale, up rugged mountain steep ; 
What though the way be dark, and drear, and cold? 
All shall be well, when safe within the Fold. 
Thy will be done. 

Thy will be done. Kind Elder Brother, Friend, 
Teach me with Thine, my own wild will to blend ; 
As melt the snow-flakes in the boundless sea, 
I losing all, find all, my God, in thee. 

Thy will be done. 



RABBONI. 

Mary ! Rabboni ! ah, those words, 
The heart with gladness filling ; 

They check the tear, calm every fear, 
Each throb of anguish stilling. 
Rabboni. 

Grief's surging sea, ah, who but He 
Could stay its wild commotion ? 

What voice but Thine can bid light shine 
On life's dark, troubled ocean ? 
Rabboni. 

Mary ! Rabboni ! buried love 

Here finds a resurrection ; 
No more need gloom enshroud the tomb 

When angels lend i:>rotection, 
Rabboni. 

Mary ! Rabboni ! mourner, know 
The one you've lost, and longed for so, 
May linger near, as by the side 
Of Mary stood the crucified 

Rabboni. 



RABBONI. 43 

Mary ! Rabboni ! ah, those words — 
They touch the bosom's tenderest chords, 
They tell of life beyond the grave — 
Of hope through Him who came to save. 
Rabboni. 



HOPE'S SONG OF PATIENCE. 

A beautiful answer was given by a little Scotch girl, when her 
class at school was examined : she replied to the question, What 
is patience ? — " Wait a wee and dinna weary." 

Wait a wee, and dinna weary — 

'Tis a tender, sweet refrain, 
When the way seems dark and dreary ; 

Sing it o'er and o'er again : 

A bahn doth Patience bring for jDain — 
Then wait a wee, and dinna weary. 

Dinna weary, wait a wee — 

A brighter day will shine for thee. 

E'en now its rosy dawn I see. 

Hope bids me whisper this to thee — 

Then dinna weary, wait a wee, 

O ! dinna weary, wait a wee. 



"HALF A LOAF IS BETTER THAN NO 
BREAD." 

Give what you can, 

Be it little or much ; 
A word, look, or smile 

Or the friendly hand's touch, 
And never forget 

That the i3roverb hath said, 
" A half of a loaf 

Is worth more than no bread." 

There are some who have only 

A piece to bestow ; 
Their means are but small. 

Though the heart may o'erflow ; 
But such will increase 

Both their oil and their meal. 
If others' wants cause them 

To act and to feel. 

A famine was raging, 

The jDrophet apjilied 
For food, to the widow, 

Nor was he denied ; 



46 POEMS. 

And how was her soul 
Of its sorrow beguiled ; 

When for bread, she was paid 
In the life of her child ! 

Be it ever so humble, 

The gift you bestow, 
To the heart of the giver 

A blessing must flow ; 
So long as 'tis true 

What the proverb hath said — 
" A half of a loaf 

Is worth more than no bread." 



NORAH NOHONE. 

She pensively sitteth, 
This Norah Nolione, 
But she peevishly mourns not 

The days that are gone ; 
There is hope in her heart, 

Though I hear a low sigh ; 
As softly she murmurs, 
« Joys brightened to fly." 

When first her bark floated 
O'er life's shining wave, 
To one skilful Pilot 

The rudder she gave : 
He has guided her safely 

Through tempest and calm ; 
When billows dashed round her 
He shielded from harm. 

Her lot has been woman's, 
Her fate, that of all ; 

The light and the shadow, 
The sunshine and pall ; 



48 POEMS. 

And she yearns for a country, 

By sin undefiled, 
Where the sorrow-bowed spirit 

Is glad as a child. 

But she cheerfully waiteth 

Her summons to go ; 
That home, O ! how sweet. 

Where the bright waters flow ; 
There loved ones yet live, 

Though they've left her alone ; 
She knows they keep watch 

Over Norah Nohone. 



EPITHALAMIUM. 

Cloudless ray and carol gay 
Welcomed in our wedding-day ; 

Calm life's ocean spread before us ; 

Benedicite, was the chorus 
As we sped our onward way. 

Skilful pilot, prosperous gale, 

Ne'er was rent the silken sail ; 

For one breath hath fanned it ever, 
Bark thus borne becalmed is never ; 

The breeze true love — this cannot fail. 

Content the name we early gave 

To our frail craft, which Time's rough wave 

Hath ploughed for years with steady keel ; 

And now, though age doth o'er us steal, 
We shrink not, though the tempest rave. 

For Death, with cold, yet friendly hand, 
But steers us to a pleasant land. 

The port of Peace, called Heaven ! 

Hail to the storm, if there we're driven, 
To furl our sail on that bright strand. 



THE RUMINAL FIG TREE. 

(The Euminal Fig Tree, near Curtian Lake, in the Forum at 
Rome, having been touched by lightning, was hekl sacred. — 
"Know that the Ughtuing sanctifies below." — Bykon'S Childe 
Harold.) 

Once in the clays of Rome's renown, 
When laurel did the victor crown, 
Within the Forum's classic shade 
A fig tree reared its verdant head ; * 

Among its boughs, by Curtian lake, 
Gay birds did sweetest music make. 

But storm-clouds gathered in the sky, 
The temj^est's voice rose hoarse and high ; 
Both man and beast before it quailed — 
Then bolt from heaven the tree assailed ; 
And from that hour a sacred thing 
Was that scarred tree by Curtian spring. 

Doth not thy memory restore ^ 

A rural spot in days of yore ; 

Perchance from moonlight walk returning, 

Hojie's light undimmed in Youth's lamp burning — 

Some lightning-scathed and withered tree, 

Whose hollow trunk bore thought for thee ? 



TEE RUMINAL FIG TREE. 51 

All blighted, battered, blackened, bare, 
It stood, an emblem of despair ; 
We viewed the wreck with silent awe, 
And from the scene did moral draw ; 
The tree seemed fruitful in its blight, 
And we were wiser for the sight. 

Long, changeful years have passed since then ; 
We've battled in the strife of men. 
Life's journey trod with wounded feet, 
Tasted the bitter cup and sweet, 
Seen blooming hopes fade one by one, 
Till like that tree we've stood alone. 

O ! would there were no sadder scene 
Than blighted trees that once were green — 
But some are found by sorrow bowed. 
Dark palls of gloom their lives enshroud ; 
Too oft neglected, blamed, and feared. 
They stand like trees by lightning seared. 

But guard thou, as some holy thing. 

The heart where grief has left its sting ; 

Deal gently, be he friend or foe. 

With one who feels heaven's chastening blow ; 

Give love, alms, tears, heart's dew and rain, 

And Hope's dead tree shall live again. 



THE TREASURE TROVE. 

A TALE is told of ancient chest, 
Where maiden for lier bridal drest, 
Arrayed in garments pure and white, 
Would hide her from the loved one's sight. 
In this strange coffin she lay hid. 
Till hand of childhood raised the lid. 

'Twas thus with Truth, that maid most fair 
She shrunk from error's gaze and glare 
And sought, long since, with modest grace, 
Like young Ginevra, hiding-place, 
Till men with guileless heart should come, 
In childlike faith, to unlock her tomb. 

Then, springing from her dark retreat, 

She smiling hastes the soul to greet ; 

Unfolds to earth celestial love. 

And guides in paths unseen before, 

In wisdom's book inscribes our name, 

And leads to heaven, from whence she came. 



MY WORLD. 

"What a resource," said the ill-fated Marie Antoinette, "amid 
the casualties of life, is a well-cultivated inind. One can then be 
one's own companion and find society in one's own thoughts." 

I HAVE a world, <a beauteous world, 

A world that's all my own ; 
Ne'er jarred is its soft harmony 

By one discordant tone. 

Here cluster round me beings fair, 

Bright, living forms of grace ; 
From earth they come, yet hath there shone 

Heaven's light on every face. 

Heart joined to heart, hand clasped in hand. 
On tireless feet we roam ; 
* An angel's bliss doth o'er me steal 
In my sweet Eden home. 

When purpose high inspires the breast. 

And life hath noble aim, 
Lips ne'er need breathe a secret sigh 

For honor, wealth, or fame. 



5-4 POEMS. 

Unwelcome foe may ne'er intrude 
The soul's deep peace to mar ; 

Nor doth one cloud of doubt enshroud 
Faith's ever-beaming star. 

No setting sun, no waning moon, 

In this my world are seen ; 
Among the flowers, in these fair bowers, 

No serpent's trail hath been. 

Through this my world a healing stream 

Of heaven-born pity flows ; 
Green on its banks tlie tree of Hope 

Yields balm for heaviest woes. 

I leave my world as quits the bird 

Its quiet, downy nest. 
To cheer with song the darkened home. 

And gladden some sad breast. 

For sight of sorrow lends a charm 

To every poet's lay ; 
And human harps yield sweetest strains 

When Grief's pale fingers play. 

From venom nectar I distil, 
And si^arkling honey-dew ; 



MY WOBLD. 55 

Then hive them in ray own bright world, 
Where poison-flower ne'er grew. 

The loved seem never lost to me, 

For in my world they dwell 
Whom some call dead are living here, 

Where sounds nor dirge nor knell. 

The poet's world — a beauteous world — 

Would it to all were given ; 
But each may share a home more fair 

Than his faint type of heaven. 



TRIALS A BLESSING. 

In heart, as in footstep, we're tempted to stray 
From the straight path to heaven, from wisdom's 

safe way ; 
And trials are blessings, which rightly improved 
Will aid our return, though far we have roved ; 
The hand of a friend would sever our chain, 
Earth's captives restoring to freedom again. 

O ! need is there none for these heart-gushing 

tears. 
These watchings so wearing, these cankering 

fears ; 
Though tossed on life's billows, we safely repose, 
For faith hath a charm that can banish all woes ; 
And He who bade order from chaos arise 
Can bid on our darkness light stream from the 

skies. 

When heavily laden with burdens and cares. 
Like some gallant ship with its treasures and 
wares. 



TRIALS A BLESSING. 57 

The soul may cast anchor on Him who once said 
To the sea — Be thou cahu ; to the tempest — Be 

stayed. 
Thus sweet shall our slumber be, tranquil our 

rest, 
As an infant's first sleep on a fond motlier's 

breast. 

Be calm then, my spirit ! Let murmuring cease. 
There is One at the helm who will guide thee to 

peace ; 
His word the proud waves in their fury obey ; 
His voice through the storm whispers sweetly 

to-day — 
No harm shall befall thee, thy bark is but driven 
By tempests of earth to the haven of heaven. 



EVERYTHING SPEAKS TO ME. 

EvEBYTiiiNG speaks to me, 

Voices each hour 
Breathe o'er my spirit 

A hallowing power ; 
Softly they seem to say — 

Wilt thou attend ? 
Message I bear for thee, 

'Tis from a friend. 

Dawn of the morning, 

Setting sun's ray ; 
Noon, with its busy hum, 

Evening clouds gray ; 
Twilight's calm hour, 

That whispers of rest. 
To the toil-worn and weary 

A heaven-sent guest. 

Last rose of summer, 

First fall of snow ; 
Wail of the Avinter-wind, 

Foretelling woe ; 



EVERYTHING SPEAKS TO ME. 59 

Bright hues of autumn, 

That smile at decay ; 
And, saint-like, seem glad 

To be passing away. 

Teachers so gentle, 

Lessons so wise ; 
Who can resist them ? 

"Who dare despise ? 
E'en sages in wisdom, 

To Nature's book turn ; 
From insect and lily 

Bid ignorance learn. 

Song of the whip-poor-will ; 

Buzz of the bee ; 
Coo of the ring-dove, 

Flower on the lea ; 
Bird, breeze, and blossom, 

Stars gemming night's ])all ; 
Everything speaks to me, 

Voices have all. 



PASSED ON. 

A SCENE of care and clouds 

They have left for a home of joy 

A world where pain each i^leasure shrouds, 
For bliss without alloy. 

Our hearts their memories bless, 

Our lips their worth confess, 

Their own death-knell, they heard it rung, 

And yet with uncomplaining tongue 
They have passed on — 
Our holy dead. 

The same soft south-wind steals 

O'er age's wrinkled brow, 
And childhood's smooth cheek feels 

Its soothing influence now; 
Then by the couch of death 
It gives the dying breath. 
In weakness making strong ; 
Thus did they move along, 
They have passed on — 
Our holy dead. 



PASSED 0]!r. 61 

The song-bird tunes its lay 

Beside the cottage door, 
Then soaring far away, 

Its form is seen no more ; 
Safe in a peaceful nest 
It finds a welcome rest — 
Hope dawned when they appeared, 
For thus they sung and cheered ; 
They have passed on — 
Our holy dead. 

The blue and sparkling wave 

Doth gently kiss the strand, 
Then distant shores to lave 

It hasteth from the land ; 
A blessing to bestow 
Thus onward did they go ; 
Now, like that wavelet bright, 
They shine in heaven's own light ; 
They have passed on — 
Our holy dead. 

The grain to the scythe doth yield. 

Or the sower had lost his toil ; 
No sigh is heard when it quits the field 

At his will, the lord of the soil. 
The reaper's shout was loud, 
When they to his sickle bowed ; 



62 POEMS. 

Now the glad Harvest Home is sung, 
For they are bound the sheaves among ; 
They have passed on — 
Our holy dead. 

Oh ! they soothed like the south-wind, 

They sung like the bird. 
Like the wave's gentle murmur 

Their voices were heard ; 
They were ripe like the grain, 
Then thy sorrow restrain ; 
For to them with the wheat a place hath been 

given, 
And they are now safe in the garner of heaven ; 
They have passed on — 
Our holy dead. 

Since death's dark shadow flings 

Its pall o'er human love. 
Who doth not sigh for wings, 

For wings to soar above ? 
Who doth not long to go ? 
For none true bliss can know, 
Till of them it is said. 
As of our holy dead — 
They have passed on 
Our holy dead. 



FAITH. 

Faith is an anchor, 

Faith is a sliield, 
Faith is a weapon 

The weakest may wield ; 
Faith is an antidote, 

Faith is a balm, 
Faint can the tyrant 

Terror disarm ; 
Faith is a comforter. 

Faith is a friend. 
Faith is a talisman 

Hearts to defend ; 
Faith is a monarch 

With power to control 
Horror and dread 

When they threaten the soul ; 
Faith is a sentinel. 

Knowing no fear, 
Faith is a watchword, 

The drooping to cheer ; 
Faith is the whisper 

Of heavenly voice, 



64 POEMS. 

Faith bids us learn 

" In all things to rejoice ; " 
Faith is an altar, 

Where doubt must be laid, 
Faith says in the tempest, 

" Be not afraid ; " 
Faith is a refuge 

From every snare, 
Faith nerves us with courage 

The burden to bear ; 
Faith is a well-spring 

Of peace to the mind, 
Faith ojDens closed lids, 

Gives eyes to the blind. 
In Faith's gallant vessel 

We sail o'er life's wave. 
Faith flings a halo 

Where Hope finds a grave; 
Faith is ours for the asking. 

Then let none despair. 
Faith jilucks from the bosom 

The arrows of care ; 
Faith lifts the dark curtain 

That covers the tomb. 
And Faith's kindly lamp 

Enlightens its gloom ; 



FAITH. 65 



Faith triumphs o'er all 

Nor is vanquished by Death ; 
But tlie grim King of Terrors 

Is conquered by Faith. 
Then pray that this boon 

To all hearts may be given, 
Till Faith turns to sight 

'Mid the glories of heaven. 



H THE HEART'S GARDEN. 

The heart is a garden, where grow 
Sweet flowers and poisonous w^eeds ; 

And each passing moment we sow 
Of one or the other the seeds. 

If thoughts are unselfish and kind, 
Pure, gentle, and tender, and true, 

We shall ne'er in our heart's garden find 
The nightshade, and hemlock, and rue ; 

But blossoms than Eden's more fair, 

Exhaling a sweeter perfume ; 
Their breath bearing balm for all care, 

In richest profusion shall bloom. 

Since you, friend, and I, every hour 
Are scattering broadcast this seed ; 

Know, every good thought blooms a flower. 
The bad, springs a poisonous weed. 



COUNSELS. 

Be wise, my head, the past hath shown 
The Father safely leads his own 
Up rugged steep, through thorny vale ; 
Though eye grow dim and cheek turn pale, 
Let not a doubt His love assail. 
Be wise, my head, the past hath shown 
The Father safely leads His own — 
Be wise, my head. 

Be strong, my heart, and bravely bear 
Thy Heaven-appointed load of cai-e ; 
How pure the bliss the angels know, 
To sigh not but for others' woe. 
Thus live and feel their peace below. 
Be strong, my heart, and bravely bear 
Thy Heaven-appointed load of care — 
Be strong, my heart. 

Be calm, my pulse, now cool and slow 
Should be thy crimson current's flow, 
Nor sadly beat, nor wildly thrill 
In grief or joy, at good or ill ; 
Each hath its mission to fulfil ; 



68 POEMS. 

Be calm, my pulse, now cool and slow 
Should be thy crimson current's flow — 
Be calm, my pulse. 

Be glad, my soul, on Time's fleet wing 
Thou'rt nearing an eternal spring. 
When Plope's fair buds shall know no blight, 
And sunniest day need fear no night, 
And Wrong no more shall conquer Right 
Be wise, be strong, be calm, be glad, 
Stand for life's conflict armor-clad. 
Be wise, be strong. 



GO, TELL IT TO JESUS. 

Go, tell it to Jgsus, 

Thy want and thy woe ; 
When the soul in its anguish 

Asks — Where shall I go ? 
The voice that si:)oke " Peace " 

To the wild, raging sea, 
In tender tone whispers, 

Come, come unto me — 
Go, tell it to Jesus. 

Go, tell it to Jesus, 

Thy sorrow and sin ; 
The ark of His love 

Takes the weary dove in, 
Whate'er be thy burden, 

Whatever thy care. 
Strength, succor, and shelter, 

Thou'lt find them all there - 
Go, tell it to Jesus. 



70 POEMS. 

Go, tell it to Jesus, 

Ne'er closed is His ear ; 
E'en the cry of the raven 

He deigneth to hear. 
His pity will soothe thee, 

His pardon shall save. 
His grace bid thee triumph 

O'er death and the grave ■ 
Go, tell it to Jesus. 



SILENCE SPEAKING. 

TiiERE needs no outward sign, no visible token, 
To shadow forth my heart's great love for thee ; 

The language of the soul can ne'er be spoken 
Save in low murmurs — like the deep, deep 
sea! 



A FAREWELL TO YOUTH. 

\yiiAT though they may vanisli, tlie visions of 

childhood, 
And with tlieni our dreams of tlie fern-seentcd 

wild wood ; 
And wdaat though the footsteps grow feeble and 

slow, 
As onward, and downward, and upward we go ? 

The sun shines as brightly, the landscape is 

fair. 
As when the liglit heart knew nor sorrow nor 

care ; 
The rose is still fragrant, the robin's song gay, 
As once when he carolled life's morning away. 

And nightly, in valley, on hill-top, and tree, 
The stars shed their beams, while the land and 

the sea 
Repose in their soft light now, as when at first 
Through yon calm azure vault their pure radi- 
ance burst. 



72 POEMS. 

Tlien breathe not a sigh, though the years pass- 
ing by 

From thy form rob the grace, steal the light from 
thine eye ; 

Though Time on thy brow leave the traces of 
care. 

And his fingers silver threads twine in thy hair. 

No cloud on the spirit, no tear on the cheek, 
A peace in the soul which the lips cannot speak ; 
With faces all radiant, beaming and bright. 
Thus kindred hearts greet in the fair land of 
light. 

Hark! voices are telling of bloom that fades 

never — 
And sweet visions come of a blissful forever. 
O ! home of eternal youth, holy and free. 
Heaven grant aU at last may find shelter in thee. 



SUNNY SPOTS. 

What thongli we wander in a maze, 

Bestrewed with many a thorn ; 
What though across tlie stream of Time 

Our bark be rudely borne ? 
What though we number weary hours, 

When life apjoears a blot ? 
Still may we find to cheer our hearts 

There's many a sunny spot. 

Though on the present, with its cares, 

No light is seen to fall ; 
And o'er the page of future years 

Despair has spread her jjall ; 
Yet, early days of childhood's mirth, 

What heart remembers not ? 
When Hope's bright dreams made all so fair. 

Earth seemed one sunny spot ! 

The heedless foot may press the flowers. 

And odors from them bring ; 
Thus oft in sorrow's deepest night 

Faith's sweetest blossoms spring. 



74 POEMS. 

If thou hast dried the widow's tear, 

Pitied the orphan's lot, 
Then thou hast felt, amid the gloom, 

There was a sunny sjDot. 

If to the humble couch of pain 

Aid thou hast kindly brought ; 
And poured upon a wounded heart 

The balm it vainly sought ; 
If thou in prayer hast meekly bent, 

Within thy lowly cot, 
Then thou hast in life's desert proved 

Thyself a sunny spot. 

Then, what though down the stream of Time 

Thy bark be rudely driven ? 
The Pilot's hand is ever near, 

To guide thee safe to heaven. 
Earth's weary children then shall find. 

When every care forgot. 
They calmly rest, secure from fears, 

The grave a sunny spot. 



CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

A GREETING to all ! On this bright Christmus Day, 
And oh ! as we joyfully speed on our way, 
May Peace on our souls fall like dew on the 

flowers, 
And Faith's lamp illumine life's dark, wintry 

hours. 

Thrice welcome the morning, so holy and blest, 
Which brought to this lost world that heavenly 

guest ; 
A child, yet a king ! let the sky's arches ring. 
And human tongues j^eal out their glad wel- 
coming. 

A manger received Him — there smiling He lay, 
Omnipotence cradled — God mantled in clay ; 
His birthplace was borrowed, His sepulchre given. 
But Death could not hold Him — its fetters are 



One thought for our solace — though Grief's 

sable pall 
On pathway and heart like a mantle may fall ; 



76 POEMS. 

In ])overty, sickness, death, sorrow, and care, 
The servant doth only the Master's lot share. 

To Bethlehem's stable we come not to-day, 
With gold and frankincense, our tribute to pay ; 
Each heart is an altar — the pure sacrifice 
Of spirits meek, contrite. He ne'er will despise. 

His love — it is changeless, his hand will uphold 
His arms bear in safety the lambs to His fold ; 
The Good Shepherd giveth his life for the sheep ; 
Then say — shall we doubt Him, or murmuring 
weej) ? 

No ! grateful and glad His sweet Avill to obey. 
In our hearts Ave'll enthrone Him, and welcome 

His SAvay ; 
And trust in His promise, so graciously given. 
The faithful on earth shall be crowned His in 

heaven. 

Then a greeting to all — on this bright Christmas 

Day- 
And O ! as we joyfully speed on our way. 
May Peace on our souls fall like dew on the flowers, 
And Faitli's lamp illumine life's dark, wintry 

hours. 



OUR ROSE. 

No fairer rose e'er grew 

Than our garden bower knew ; 
And her influence like odor breathed around ; 

The magic of her words 

Touched our bosom's tenderest chords — 
And our hearts to our Rose were closely bound. 

The lily veils its face, 

And shuns with modest grace 
The gaze of the crowd passing by ; 

Thus she, our garden's pride, 

Her sweetness sought to hide — * 

But an angel called Death claimed our Rose for 
the sky. 

Then she faded like a flower, 

That in autumn's early hour 
Feels the chilling winds o'er its leaves sweej) ; 

But our Rose is blooming still 

Where no blighting frost can kill — 
This precious thought shall cheer us, though we 
weep. 



WATCH AND WAIT. 

Be this thy motto — watch and wait — 
These words are armed with power ; 

They nerve the soul with cahn resolve 
To meet misfortune's hour. 

Watch and wait. 

In faith the precious seed consign 

To its dark grave, the soil ; 
Then watch and Avait — the springing germ 

Will well reward thy toil. 

Watch and wait. 

Should sickness to thy dwelling come, 

That pale, mysterious guest ; 
And bear thy darlings, one by one 

To dreamless churchyard rest. 

Watch and wait. 

Who reads the scroll of future years 

Shall own the record shows 
That death but snatched the friends we mourned 

From deep, o'ershadowing woes. 
Watch and wait. 



WATCE AND WAIT. 79 

Hath fickle Fortune faithless proved, 

And closed her liberal hand ? 
Are laurels drooi^ing on thy brow 

By Fame's soft breath once fanned ? 
Watch and wait. 

True Virtue, in her conscious worth. 

Both sneer and frown defies ; 
When her pure gaze is heavenward turned 

Bright grow her tear-dimmed eyes. 
Watch and wait. 

To gray-haired matron, hoary sage. 

Alike to small and great ; 
'Tis wisdom's voice through Nature speaks, 

And bids us watch and wait. 
Watch and wait. 

Then be thy motto — watch and wait — 

Be strong to bear, to dare. 
And Hoj^e shall tinge with rainbow hues 

The night of thy despair. 

Watch and wait. 



MEET ME IN HEAVEN. 

" Meet me in heaven " — in j^ensive strain 
Fond memory bids me sing again ; 
Of one, the gentle-souled and fair — 
Inspiring theme ! This world of care 
Were blest, indeed, if more were found 
Like her who sleeps 'ncath yonder mound ; 
And who, ere her pure spirit fled — 
" Meet me in heaven " calmly said. 

" Meet me in heaven " affection's chords 

Thrill gently at those tender words ; 

Soft as the notes of dying swan — 

Her face, so bright to look upon 

Beamed like an angel's, and we knew 

She soon would be an angel too. 

To faith and hope new wings were given 

When first we heard — " Meet me in heaven." 

" Meet me in heaven " — while here we dwell, 
What mean these words no tongue can tell. 



MEET ME IN HEAVEN. 81 

To bid adieu to care and fear, 

Exchange for smiles each burning tear, 

To wear a crown, to share a tlirone. 

To call an angel's bliss our own : 

Nor is this all — who join the blest. 

And — meet in heaven — shall know the rest. 



GUARDIAN ANGELS. 

! NOT alone when mortals sleep 
Do angel watchers vigil keep ; 
They linger near us, through the day ; 
Their ready promptings when we stray 
Would lead us in the better way. 

On Pity's brow their soft light falls, 
When sorrow for compassion calls ; 
When tears are shed, and hopes depart, 
When anguish rends the breaking heart, 
They of its venom rob the dart. 

What though no eye their form may view, 
Their love is constant, firm, and true ; 
And when we most require their aid, 
Beside our j^ath, around our bed. 
With noiseless step these watchers tread. 

Oft when is breatlied the last faint sigh. 
Their soft hands close the dying eye ; 



GUARDIAN ANGELS. 83 

They whisper in the dull, cold ear, 

Kind words of peace, and hope, and cheer; 

Then heavenward the freed spirit bear. 

Say, would'st thou share their mission blest, 
Who guide earth's weary ones to rest ? 
This holy task is given to thee. 
For ere Death's hand shall set thee free, 
A guardian angel thou may'st be. 



OUR SECRET. 

A Madrigal. 

I NEVER said — "I love thee ! " 
But when I bend in prayer, 

One treasured name is on my lips, 
Its whisper stirs the air. 

I never said — "I love thee ! " 
My voice to thee is dumb ; 

But if of thee another speak. 

What tender thoughts will come, 

I never said — "I love thee ! " 
My hand thine may not be, 

But ever will the faithful shell 
Moan for the far-off sea. 

I never said — "I love thee ! " 
But there's a beauteous clime, 

Where solved are all the mysteries 
O'er which we weep in time ; 



OUR SECRET. 85 

And up in those bright mansions, 

Where all is pure and fair ; 
We'll break our long kept silence, 

And tell our secret there ! 



JUST SEVENTEEN. 

x\ SONG for thee, thou maiden fair, 
Of graceful form and shining hair ; 
Of birdlike voice, and footstep light, 
A song for thee this festal night. 

Thy birthday ! tender memories throng, 
Like honey-bees the flowers among ; 
Just seventeen years since thy blue eyes 
This bright earth saw, and brighter skies. 

A rosebud in a garden growing, 
A sj^arkling rill with gentle flowing, 
Make gladder far the hearts and home 
To which or flower or streamlet come. 

Thy past, that hath so quickly sped, 
By love's soft hand so gently led ; 
O ! may it faithful prophet be 
Of what the future hath for thee. ' 



JUST SEVENTEEN. 87 

Can friendship ask for more than this — 
The smile of God thou ne'er may'st miss ; 
That bud to beauteous rose may grow, 
Rill merge in river's peaceful flow. 

And then at last in yonder heaven, 
To stream and flower may j^lace be given, 
For all that's beauteous, bright, and free, 
A fitting emblem finds in thee. 

A song for thee, thou maiden fair, 
Of graceful form and shining hair, 
Of birdlike voice and footstep light, 
A sons for thee this festal nio'ht. 



IIEART-YEARNINCS. 

I AKK hut. for llic j^ciillc t,nn(^, 
'I'lm 1(»u(5 to Kootlu^ ;iii(l clicor ; 

Tli.'ii toiK^ woiiM Miicli Hvv('((i inuHic make, 
No (lisconl could I liciir. 

\ ask )»ut for t.li(^ loviiijj; look, 

'I'Ik^ look tliai (lolli a))j)r()vo ; 
'I'liiit look would uci'vc my mouI to bear, 

I {('call IMC should I rove 

I ask I)ul lor llic Miully smile, 
The smil(3 ot" trust and truth ; 

A smile like that on IMoah's j)lainH 
Naomi !:^nve to IJiilh. 

I ask Imt for the nameless forms 

Whicl) syni])atliy express, 
Those sweet and tendei' ministries 

'rii.'ii have such power t,o bless. 



HE A It T- y/'JA UNINdH. 89 

Such humble boons arc nil I ask, 
They're boons that each can give ; 

These boons bestow, and eartli shall know 
That not in vain you live. 

These yearnings of the human heart, 
Oft breathed in tears and siglis, 

When met will lo thr-se homes of ours 
Restore lost Paradise. 



THE BERRY HARVEST. 

IIiE away to the liarvcst, boy, inatroii, and maid, 
Of viper or vermin let none be afraid ; 
And gear nj) the horse for the siekly and old, 
P^or berry-time, sure, is our true age of gold. 

Speed off o'er the fields, to the pasture so green, 
Where berries the rijjest and tliiekest are seen, 
Each bush nods a welcome to all who will come, 
Then linger not lazily, drone-like at home. 

Rise up with the robin, and brisk as the bee. 
Go forth to tlie woods, they are waiting for thee ; 
Pail, basket, pan, dipper, each soon shall be filled. 
The crop proves the soil was by skilful hands 
tilled. 

Kind Heaven sows broadcast the sweet berry 

seed, 
On high place and low, over hill-top and mead, 
And nature's voice calls thee, the summons obey ; 
Come, gather my harvest of berries to-day. 



THE BEERY HARVEST. 91 

It matters but little what garment is worn, 
Ten chances to one that the dress will be torn, 
For coat, hat, and bonnet, tlie worst ones will do, 
But guard well the feet, or this tramp you may rue. 

Thus clad, sally forth, and the forest will smile. 
Gray rocks shall re-echo your glad song the while. 
The old will grow young as the past is lived o'er. 
When some joined their sport who will share it 
no more. 

No daintier meal for the best need be spread. 
Than berries and milk, with good old-fashioned 

bread ; 
How oft when a child, followed supper like this, 
A kind father's good-night and a fond mother's 

kiss. 

Alike for us all, both the great and the small. 
Is heard in the soft breath of summer the call — 
My fruit-feast is ready, wide-open the door, 
For low and for high, for the wealthy and poor. 

Then liie to the harvest, boy, matron, and maid, 
Of viper or vermin let none be afraid ; 
And gear up the horse for the sickly and old. 
For berry-time, sure, is our true age of gold. 



FEAR NOT. 

When in earth's deserts, dark and drear, 
Earth's weary pilgrims faint with fear, 
A voice is heard to soothe and cheer 
Like that which fell on Hagar's ear — 
Fear not. 

What though like His, the Crucified, 
Thy temjited soul be sorely tried ? 
Still learn in patience to abide. 
When trusted friends deceive, deride. 
Fear not. 

The gloomy day will pass away. 
The sigh give place to joyful lay ; 
Thy night lit up with cheering ray 
Shall God's unchanging love display. 
Fear not. 

The pitying Father hears thy cry. 
When tears heart-gushing dim the eye, 



FEAR NOT. 93 

Then shall the glance of faith descry 
The healing stream that flows near by, 
Fear not. 

On earth is found no desert jilace 
So drear, but, as in Hagar's case, 
Celestial form, with angel face 
Says, whispering of promised grace — 
Fear not. 



I DEEAiviED of ouc wlio Worthiest seemed 

Of human kind to be, 
I woke to find my brightest dream 

More than fulfilled in thee 



THE CHILD-SEERS. 

Suggested by a Story of Pioneer Life iu America. 

Angel-guided, angel-guarded, 
On they press their shining way, 

Bright the light that gleams above them, 
Pure their smile as morn's first ray. 

Visions clear and well defined. 
Oft before their mind's eye pass, 

And they see the fated Future 
Mirrored forth, as in a glass. 

Words j^rophetic, — intuitions, 

Mark the child-seer's daily life, 
'Tis the voice of wisdom warning. 

Calming sorrow, checking strife. 

Spurn them not, these Heaven-sent teachers, 
Let them bless thee ere they're flown, 

Gentle mentors, by whose soft hands 
Precious seeds of truth are sown. 



THE CEILD-SEERS. 95 

Human flowers of mould celestial, 

Rare mimosas seem they such, 
With their lightest tendril trembling 

At good spirits' slightest touch. 

To the poor man's humble dwelling, 
And to homes of wealth and care, 

Come these beaming forms of beauty. 
Like God's angels, unaware. 

Not found by Scottish burn alone, 

On Irish moor, in English glen, 
But in all climes are child-seers known 

To cast their sacred spell o'er men. 

Links uniting earth to heaven — 
Things above with things below — 

Of the child-seer's holy mission 
This, and this is all we know ! 



SOME ONE IS PRAYING FOR ME. 

I KNOW by the deep peace that comes to my soul, 
When of light not a ray can I see, 

That to Him who e'er maketh the wounded heart 
whole, 
Some one is praying for me. 

I know by these visions so holy and bright, 
By this love, from all earthly taint free. 

Illuming my pathway with Heaven's own light, 
That some one is praying for me. 

I know by sweet voices now whispering hope. 
Like soft murmur of far-distant sea ; 

The spirit thus nerving with life's ills to cope, 
That some one is praying for me. 

Oh ! Hearer of prayer, make that soul thy care, 

Where'er on this earth it may be ; 
Each heavy cross lighten, each sorrow-cloud 
brighten. 

For one who is praying for me. 



MY WEE BIT SANG. 

Though bonny sun nor caller rain 

Fa' on thy path to-day, 
Be canty still and yie' thy will 

To Ane that luves for aye. 

He kens what's best, i' this truth rest, 
These changefu' scenes amid, 

Whate'er may corae, o' blight or bloom, 
Of seeming ill, or guid. 

Life's storm may be dark and drearie, 
Cauld, cauld the winds may blaw, 

But we, soon, like the birdies, dearie. 
Shall be flittin' far awa'. 

The fairest day maun fade away, 

The foulest lasts not lang, 
Wi' leal light heart, then bear thy part,- 

Thus ends my wee bit sang. 



THE DYING HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE. 

" Bend closer, dearest, I would speak 
Though strength be failing, voice be weak, 
Fain would I in thy listening ear 
Breathe words which only thou should'st hear. 

My life, now ebbing fast away. 
Had been a dull, cold winter's day. 
Had not thy love dispelled the gloom. 
And caused this desert heart to bloom. 

Nay, wee]) not, darling, see yon star 
So calmly shining from afar ; 
'Tis like thine eyes, whose holy light 
E'er turned to day my darkest night. 

The sickle speaks the Reaper near. 
E'en now his footstejDS greet my ear ; 
Hark ! voices bid me come away. 
They gleam in sight, the gates of day ! 



TEE DYING HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE. 99 

Crown, harp, and raiment spotless, white, 
Will soon be mine, in the land of light; 
Then wear no mourning robes for mo. 
White, like thy soul, let thy garments be." 

A look, a smile, a murmured prayer. 

And those pale lij^s closed, but the hallowed air 

Still echoed the dear, familiar tone, 

" In heaven the true heart claims its own." 

The uncaged spirit upward sprung, 

While its " welcome home " was by angels sung ; 

And now, beside the crystal sea. 

He watching waits, dear heart for thee. 



A VISION. 

'TwAS a beautiful vision that noiselessly stole, 
Like a sweet dream of heaven, entrancing the 

soul ; 
Though weary the sleepei', her cares fled away 
Like mists of the morning at break of the day. 

By her side stood a Presence — nor motion nor 

breath 
Broke the silence that reigned like the stillness 

of death; 
The white Dove of Peace spread its pinions so 

near, 
That hushed was each murmur and calmed every 

fear. 

Awe-stricken she gazed on the shadowy form, 
For the vision yet lingered, fair, radiant, warm ; 
All, save that the head which was reverently 

bowed 
Seemed bathed, like yon moon, in a light, fleecy 

cloud. 



A VI SI OX. 101 

Who, who is this visitant ? softly she sighed, 
Then paused, yet no lips to her question replied, 
But the veil gently lifted, revealing to view 
Her own radiant form, while a voice she well 
knew — 

Said — This crown is heaven's guerdon, the con- 
queror's sign, 

On the brow of the faithful till death it shall 
shine ; 

Still, still uncomplaining thy daily cross bear, 

Through that if thou conquer this crown thou 
shalt wear ! 

Like a white lily bending, so holy and meek. 
The dew on its petals, heaven's breath on its 

cheek ; 
The sleeper awoke, to her soul had been given 
A glimpse of their rapture who waken in heaven. 



SOMETHING FOR SOMEBODY. 

SoMETiiixG ? Yes, something truly tliou art, 
Something and much to somebody's heart ; 
Tlie gray east glows with the rosy dawn. 
Something shines, and the day is born. 

Something? Yes, something truly thou art, 
Something and much to somebody's heart ; 
The dark wintry clouds wear somberest hue, 
Something smiles, and the sky is blue. 

Something ? Yes, something truly thou art. 
Something and much to somebody's heart ; 
For like a calm, starlit summer even, 
Something breathes ever of peace, hope, heaven. 



BAY VIEW. 

A VISION of beauty ! it comes not in dream, 
To vanish like mist, or tlie shadow from stream ; 
For on memory's canvas is painted to-day, 
In colors bright, fadeless, yon beautiful bay. 

It sleeps like a babe on a fond mother's breast, 
Nor ripiDle, nor murmur, so tranquil its rest ; 
It mirrors the landscape like calm Galilee, 
When a voice stilled the tempest with, " Peace, 
troubled sea." 

The great Sjoirit's blessing in token of love. 
Is brooding o'er all like some white winged dove ; 
Skies cloudless, serene, o'erarching the scene, 
Are blending their hues, azure, amber, and green. 

Soft valley in verdure, gray mountain in ])ride. 
Rejoicing clasp hands, proud bridegroom, fair 

bride ; 
White sail in the distance, and light-dipping oar, 
Steal silently by as they glide to the shore. 



104 POEMS. 

Tall trees, pointing upward, breathe softly of 

heaven. 
While from scent-laden breezes this message is 

given : 
Come, worship in Nature's grand temple to-day, 
On her moss-covered altars thy thank-offering lay. 

Oh! fair Winnisquam, in thy waves' gentle flow, 
I seem to hear voices I heard long ago ; 
They whisper of crystal sea, laving that shore, 
"Where the loved from the loving ones part never- 
more. 



OUR BIRTHDAYS. 

Our birthdays ! solemn birthdays, 

Time's sentinels they stand, 
While each from out his watch-tower cries 

The foe is close at hand ; 
These mentors mark Death's onward march, 

Monition kindly given, 
Life's mile-stones — may they record bear. 

We're one year nearer heaven. 

What, though across our pilgrim-path, 

Dark clouds and shadows steal ? 
To Faith's keen eye these phantoms grim 

Bright angel forms reveal ; 
Care, pain, and grief, they Heaven-sent come, 

On faded brows to bind, 
Celestial flowers of love and trust 

With Hope's sweet buds entwined. 

Then sorrow not to see the years 

Go speeding on their way ; 
Ask not to check them in their flight. 

Nor bid a moment stay ; 



106 FOE MS. 

Our birthdays benedictions are, 

A consecrated boon ; 
Thrice welcome, like the mellow light 

Of Autumn's harvest-moon. 

Our birthdays ! happy birthdays. 

They friendly beacons prove 
To cheer the world-worn traveller, 

And chide him should he rove ; 
They speak, as did the burning bush, 

To listening proj^het's car ; 
And wise are they who reverent turn 

As well to heed as hear. 

Our birthdays ! solemn birthdays. 

Time's sentinels they stand, 
While each from out his watch-tower cries 

The foe is close at liand ; 
These mentors mark Death's onward march, 

Monition kindly given ; 
Life's mile-stones — may they record bear 

We're one year nearer heaven. 



NAME NOT THE DEAD. 

Oh ! never say, name not the dead, 
Their memory we should keep 

Among the heart's most cherisl)ed things 
O'er which we watch and weep. 

Oh ! never say, name not the dead, 

Nor bid us to forget ; 
We prize not less the summer's sun 

Because that sun has set. 

Oh ! never say, name not the dead. 

Their record let it be 
Enshrined among our household gods, 

Things most we love to see. 

Oh ! never say, name not the dead, 
But give them still their place, 

And round the dear domestic hearth 
Brinsr each remembered face. 



108 POEMS. 

Oh ! never say, name not the dead, 
It soothes the sufferer's lot 

To wlus2?er in the dying ear 
" Thou slialt not be forgot." 

Name not the dead ! Oh, speak not so, 
The low voice seems to say, 

Of one who like a dream of bliss 
Passed from our earth away. 

Then never say, name not the dead, 

Their memory is given 
To link the chain good spirits weave 

Between our souls and heaven. 

No! never say, name not the dead. 

These gentle accents come 
From lips long since in silence sealed. 

The silence of the tomb. 



THE WALK TO ElVIMAUS. 

O'ee fair Judea's vine-clad hills, 
At early morn there strayed 

Two weary, wayworn travellers, 
In pilgrim's garb arrayed. 

Of many a furrow, deep and long, 
Their brows the traces bore, 

But grief was in their bosoms now 
They ne'er had felt before. 

And on, with weary step and slow. 
They plod their homeward way, — 

Till leno-thenino; shadows o'er the hill 
Bespeak the closing day. 

Then one the mournful silence broke. 
While on his breast there fell 

A tear, that spoke of agony 
He had not dared to tell. 



110 POEMS. 

" Brother ! thou dost remember well 
The words the Prophet sjjake ; 

That on this day from death's dark sleep 
To life He would awake. 

'Tis true, in Jose2)h's new-made tomb, 
Where his loved form had lain, 

The search the holy women made 
For their dear Lord was vain. 

Yet some who curse His holy name — 

All ! I have heard them say 
That hands of those He called His friends 

Have borne Him hence away. 

And so, with doubts my mind is torn. 

When fain I would believe ; 
What think'st thou, brother, can it be 

That He would thus deceive ? " 

While these dark fears their bosoms swell. 
More thoughtful grows their mood ; 

When on a sudden, by their side 

A meek-eyed stranger stood. ^ 

With gentle voice He asked them why 
With tears their eyes were dim ? 

Wliy on the balmy breath of eve 
Was borne no sacred hymn ? 



THE WALK TO EMMA VS. HI 

Then one the simple truth explained, 
That Christ, their Lord, was dead, 

And they had seen the sepulchre 
In which their Hope was laid. 

Then nearer to their side He drew. 
Soft were His words and mild, 

As on their ears the tale He poured 
Of Mary's sinless child. 

'Twas meet that He should drain the cup 

That to His lips was given. 
For with His dying groan He cried — 

" I ope the way to heaven " ? 

And now the sun's last golden beams 

Are fading in the west, 
And they have reached their village home 

And gained their place of rest. 

With haste the table soon is spread, 

Though frugal be their fare ; 
They turn to bid their Guest partake. 

When lo ! what sight was there ! 

Where just before the stranger stood, 

Disguised in humble mien, 
A form more bright, a seraph form. 

With radiant brow was seen. 



112 POEMS. 

He takes the bread, a blessing craves 
In tones more sweet and clear 

Than ever fell from human lips, 
Or broke on mortal ear. 

There lingers on the hallowed air 

A voice, 'tis Mercy's own ; 
And while they breathless pause to hear 

The stranger-Guest is flown. 

But ever in their glowing hearts, 

Did they the story bear 
Of a risen Saviour's dying love, 

That day recorded there. 



A DREAM. 

On her couch the sleeper lay, 
Weary, like a child, with play ; 
And a child in heart she seems. 
Who so sweetly, strangely dreams : 
All is silent in the room. 
Save the clock that cheers the gloom 
With its gentle tick, which numbers 
Every hour while Norah slumbers. 

From its cage the spirit springs, 
Plumes its light and airy wings ; 
Now it sips the sparkling dew. 
Soaring through the ether blue ; 
Now, near shining gate of pearl. 
Doth the soul its pinions furl ; 
And while breathless listening there. 
Strains of music greet her ear. 

Forms familiar, too, are seen — ■ 
Angel forms, with angel mien ; 
Father, with his snowy hair. 
Mother, with her beauty rare ; 



114 POEMS. 

Infant sister, infant brother, 
Yet one more, and still another — 
Severed links of houshold chain, 
When will they unite again ? 
Hears the soul this answer given — 
They shall meet who live for heaven. 

Now each golden harp is strung, 
Fall these notes from every tongue ; 
Pure in heart, in word, in deed. 
This white garment mortals need ; 
In robe like this while here below, 
An angel's bliss may mortal know. 
Each day let Duty's task be done — 
By victor is the laurel won — 
On earth who angel-like will live. 
In heaven an angel's crown receive. 

Purple glows the eastern sky, 
Gray dawn opes her golden eye ; 
And though morn, with rosy fingers. 
Lifts those lids, the vision lingers ; 
And its moral is imprest 
Deep within the sleeper's breast, 
While the truant soul back 

To its home has flown ; 
To its home in the bosom 

Of Norah Nohone. 



AFTER THE STORM. 

All day from out the leaden sky- 
Has leaped and danced the rain ; 

All day in the fields have swayed and bowed 
The stalks of the golden grain. 

All day the timid, trembling doves 
'Neath roofs have a shelter found ; 

All day the orchard trees have strewn 
With their leaves and fruit the ground. 

All day, on the foaming, crested waves, 
Fierce winds have j^roud barks driven. 

Now muttering deep of the last, last sleej), 
Now murmuring soft of heaven. 

But a rift in the clouds and the sun peeps 

through. 
The upturned eye sees a patch of blue ; 
That voice which once could the tempest calm, 
Now breathes on the air song, beauty, and balm. 



116 POEMS. 

The birds upspring on Hope's swift wing, 
While the glad heart joins in their carolling ; 
So lovely and fair to the gaze is the view, 
The words seem just spoken, "I make all things 
new." 

Yon gallant ship, with her sails washed white, 
Like a conqueror rides as she gleams on our sight, 
So the soul, I think, with a faith sublime, 
May triumph and smile o'er the tempests of time. 



HOW DO I THINK OF THEE? 

As the thirsty pilgrim thinks of the sparkling 

fountain ; 
As the tempest-tossed mariner thinks of some 

fixed star ; 
As the gardener thinks of some pleasant flower ; 
As the pure white lily thinks of the diamond 

dew; 
As the weary wanderer in a foreign land thinks 

of his far-off home. 



THE SACRIFICE OF ELIJAH, 

The daylight had faded and evening came on, 
Beliind the bright ocean-wave rested the sun ; 
Tired nature liad quietly fallen asleep, 
While night threw her pall o'er the land and the 
deep. 

The prophets of Baal, grown weary and faint, 
Had breathed to each other their fruitless com- 
plaint ; 
Now foaming in madness, wild curses they poured 
On idols whose aid they had vainly implored. 

In silence unbroken, night's sentinels kept 
Their watch, while beneath them grove, hill, val- 
ley slept ; 
Bird, leaflet, and blossom had sunk to their rest. 
And care was forgot in the sufferer's breast. 

A sound through the stillness is borne on the air, 
'Tis the voice of Elijah uplifted in prayer : 
" O God of our fathers ! in mercy give ear. 
That Thy name may be known to the heathen, 
appear." 



118 POEMS. 

'Twas heard — and with lightning-speed doAvn to 

the ground 
The red flame descended, while up rose a sound 
Like tlie wail of a nation whose honor is lost, 
Whose heart's dearest wishes are suddenly 

crossed. 

Amazed and confounded tlie false prophets stood, 
The fire was consuming their altar and wood. 
While echoes, resounding from mountain and sod 
Were loudly proclaiming, " The Lord, He is 
God!" 



COURAGE. 

Courage, my soul, for always near 
Is One who lends a listening ear ! 
He, watching, w^aits thy jirayer to hear ; 
His voice can soothe. His presence cheer, 
He wijDCS from sorrow's eye tlie tear, 
He strews Hope's flowers in deserts drear ; 
Who in their hearts an altar rear 
To Him, — need know nor care nor fear. 
Courage, my soul ! 

Close not the curtains, 

Nor darken the room. 
Nor with silence and sable-pall 

Deepen the gloom ; 
Though trembling limbs falter, 

Ay, totter to fall ; 
Bending beneath the cross, 

Drinking the gall. 

Courage, my soul ! 

Toiling up wearily 
Calvary's steep ; 



120 POEMS. 

Bearing thy weight of woe, 

Stay not to weep ; 
Firm be thy tread, 

Though rugged the road, 
Planting thy feet 

In the footprints of God. 
Courage, my soul ! 

Who would come after me, 

Thus saith the Word, 
Let him deny himself. 

Gird on the sword ; 
Arm for the ujJward march, 

Battling with foes. 
Though he sweat droj^s of blood, 

Onward he goes. 

Courage, my soul ! 

Simon of Cyrene, 

Where art thou now ? 
Gleams not the conquei-or's 

Crown on thy brow ? 
Light from its radiant points, 

Streams it not back ? 
Shedding a halo 

Over life's track ! 

Courage, my soul ! 



COURAGE. 121 

White-souled son of Afric ! 

We greet thee to-day ; 
For we tread, as thy feet trod, 

A wearisome way ; 
But joy gilds the hill-top, 

When climbing is past ; 
Who welcome cross, spear, and thorn. 

Triumph at last. 

Courage, my soul ! 



LITTLE NOTHINGS. 

Little nothings, — do them, do them, 
From the heart, and with a will ; 

What though only God may view them ? 
Do them, do them, do them still. 

Little nothings, — do them, do them, 
Every hour, and all the day ; 

Thou wilt ne'er regret or rue them. 
Strewing flowers in others' way. 

Little nothings, — do them, do them, 
Though some sacrifice they cost ; 

Life itself, the good Book tells us. 
Found is, only when 'tis lost. 

Little nothings, — and what are they ? 

Smile for smile, and tear for tear ; 
Kindly word and timely succor, 

Help to all, or far or near. 



LITTLE NOTHINGS. 123 

Widow's mite, and cujj of -water, 
Who than these conid offer less ? 

Yet the glorious, great All-Good One, 
Gift and giver deigns to bless. 

Little nothings, — seeming trifles 
Of our lives, make up the sum ; 

In the soul they make sweet music. 
Speaking when the lips are dumb. 

Little nothings, — do them, do them. 
From the heart, and with a will ; 

What though only God may view them ? 
Do them, do them, do them still. 



ODE TO ROBERT BURNS. 

Ox this thy birthday, poet, sage, and seer, 

We meet and greet, wliile blend the smile and 

tear ; 
A smile, that such as thou hast walked with men. 
Tear, that we ne'er shall see thy like again. 

"What though a hundred years have passed away 
Since first was welcomed in thy natal day ? 
Some records live which time can ne'er efface, 
And thine is one — beloved of all thy race. , 

Thy songs are sung in cot and 2:)rincely hall. 
In valleys green, on snow-capped mountains tall; 
The rich and poor, the lowly and the high, 
His name embalm whose fame can never die. 

Thy themes so wisely chosen, age and youth 

By them are won to loyalty and truth ; 

And though thy pen hath sometimes made a 

slip, — 
Whose words are always right ? and whose the 

lip 



ODE TO ROBERT BURNS. 125 

That ever wisely speaking, ne'er hatli erred ? 
Ah ! whose the stolid breast that is not stirred 
By thy own epitajih, so tender, true, 
Bright sparkling, jjure as drops of crystal dew ? 

Thine Avas the honest " frater-feeling " strong, 
Tliat e'er the right approved, condemned the 

wrong ; 
And thine the manly, gentle heart, that knew 
Life's sweetness, and its bitter sorrows, too. 

Fair Scotia's bard of " Auld lang syne " — 
Thy urn with laurel leaves we twine ; 
And at thy feet this wild flower lay — 
Sage, poet, seer of AUoway. 



V 



SONG OF THE DISENCHANTED. 

The dust hath been brushed 

From the butterfly's whig, 
The kite of my fancy 

Hath broken its string ; 
For the soft siren voices 

That greeted my ear, 
The raven's hoarse croak 

And the owl's hoot I hear. 

The halo hath faded. 

The rose-tint is fled ; 
And the leaden-hued sky 

Apj^eareth instead ; 
Where summer birds nestled. 

And tuned their sweet song, 
The canker-worm feeds 

Hope's green leaves among. 

A shadow is resting 

On life's pleasant things. 

The harp of romance 
Hath parted its strings ; 



SONG OF TEE DISENCHANTED. 127 

In camj) and in court, 

In cottage and hall, 
The glory and gilding 

Have faded from all. 

Ensconced in the green-room, 

I've witnessed the l^lay ; 
Seen the droj:) rise and fall 

In the broad light of day ; 
Kings, they are sceptreless, 

Queens without crowns ; 
Grand lords and ladies 

Are peasants and clowns. 

The spell is dissolved, 

The charm hath been broke ; 
The captive is free, 

And spurneth the yoke ; 
When idols are clay, 

And 23i"ove themselves dust, 
How fruitless our worship, 

How vain is our trust ! 

This makes me not sad. 

No ; I'm happier far ; 
For always 'tis best 

To see things as they are. 



128 POEMS. 

The dictate of wisdom 
Is ever the same ; 

Each object to call 

By its own projjer name. 

In truth's faithful mirror 

Let error aj^pear 
In her hideous form, 

And her own colors wear ; 
Then Virtue shall triumph, 

Vice vanish away, 
And earth will rejoice 

In millennial day. 



NORAH AND THE ANGELS. 

On her pillow she lay drearaing, 
In a slumber, death-like seeming ; 
When above her head were heard, 
Wings like those of gentlest bird. 
Two bright watchers hovered there ; 
Thus their voices stirred the air. 

FIKST VOICE. 

Sister, ere the break of day. 

Let us bear her hence away. 

In her soul Heaven's light is dawning. 

And she needs no note of warning. 

SECOND VOICE. 

Nay, sweet sister — nay, not now — 
(Then she kissed the sleeper's brow). 
Let her linger, still to bless 
Hearts that mourn in bitterness. 

PIKST VOICE. 

Tears already she has dried ; 
In a channel deep and wide, 



130 POEMS. 

Long has flowed her sympathy — • 
'Tis a broad, unebbing sea. 

SECOND VOICE. 

Not yet filled her meed of care, 
She must heavier burdens bear ; 
Shed more tears, see more links broken, 
Ere her last farewell be spoken. 

FIRST VOICE. 

Be it as our Father wills 

Since each life-cup wisdom fills ; 

He ordains but what is best, 

Faith anchors here and leaves the rest. 

With the dawn the sleejier rose. 
Like a sunbeam, forth she goes ; 
Heavenly voices through the day 
Cheer her on her heavenward way. 
Shining ones are by her side. 
Ever promjDt to guard and guide ; 
Till with angels Norah keep 
Gentle watch, while mortals sleep. 



THE BLIND MOTHER. 

What though no more, we meet her glance, 

To our fond look replying ? 
We know there's love within her heart 

Will live when she is dying. 

Her voice, her smile, her gentle mien, 

So angel-like have grown. 
That Heaven before her soft, dark eyes 

A veil has wisely thrown. 

Lest mortal-like she might be vain, 

Were hers the power to see 
Their worship who beside her kneel, 

In half idolatry. 

Oft from our dazzled human sight, 

What might an evil prove. 
Kind Heaven in tenderness conceals ; 

Thus chiding, lest we rove. 



132 P0EM8. 

The bard who sweetest sung of Heaven, 

First lost his sight of earth ; 
And those are oft the brightest dreams, 

Which sorrow's night gives birth. 

All is not dark, though sight be dim — 
This thought brings sweet rejDose ; 

Heaven's light may shine within the soul, 
Though God its windows close. 



TEARS. 

Thet are given in love, by One from above, 
Who shed them at Bethany's cave. 

And their value we know when some sudden 
blow, 
Has laid cherished hopes in the grave. 

They sometimes are seen on the cheek of a 
queen. 

And oft does the cottager's face 
Bear record of grief whose certain relief 

Is found, in this boon of our race. 

The matron and bride, when standing beside 
The altar and hearthstone, have wept ; 

One has found in her tears a solace for years ; 
One gratefully weeps o'er vows kept. 

This maxim I hold, his heart must be cold. 
And slow will his hand be to bless. 

Who can witness unmoved the tears of the loved, 
Nor weep o'er another's distress. 



134 POEMS. 

Like balm from the skies, these droi3S from our 
eyes, 

Can wash off the traces of sorrow ; 
When the clouds of to-day, in tears melt away, 

Hope's rainbow o'erarches our morrow. 

Who most freely weep the longest will keep 
The heart's garden free from its thorn ; 

And they happiest live who alms with tears give, 
And no human suffering scorn. 

Then through coming years let us bless God for 
tears. 

Since causes for weejjing abound ; 
Tears bind heart to heart, rob pain of its dart. 

Pour oil ujion every wound. 

Let tears be bestowed, they will lighten the load 
Which each in his turn must sustain ; 

Then i^eace, joy, and rest shall visit each guest. 
And earth smile like Eden asain. 



SPELLS. 

O ! THERE was a dreamy spell, that threw 

A charm over all when life was new ; 

It breathed on the hiU-top, it spoke in the plain, 

With a voice that we never may hear again ; 

Bird, blossom, and bee had some tale to tell. 

Whose moral was mirrored in Truth's clear well. 

In the fitful blaze of the cheerful fire. 
As it glowed in the face of my old grandsire ; 
In the sleigh-bells j^ealing their joyous chime, 
To which young hearts were beating time ; 
In the busiest scene, in the loneliest glen, 
Oh! a charm was on all around me then. 

The stars looked forth with a softer light. 

While a richer glory clothed the night ; 

And sweet were the tones that breathed love's 

vow — 
They greet me no more, those voices now — 
From broken harps, whose strings are gone, 
What hand can awake the answering tone ? 



136 POEMS. 

Nay, say not this is an idle dream — 
Things seemed not once, as now they seem, 
For in my own breast the change is wrought, 
And sage is the lesson by sorrow taught. 
As one by one the bright links part 
That bind these spells o'er the youthful heart. 



SAINT AGNES. 

In spotless robe, with folded hands, 

And heavenward gaze, Saint Agnes stands ; 

Her feet in sandals firmly shod, 

From earth she turns to walk with God. 

A snow-white lamb is by her side, 
Fit emblem of the Crucified ; 
The patience, meekness in its face, 
Teach lessons to our erring race. 

A voice steals on the hallowed air — 
The lips of Agnes move in prayer, 
In murmurs soft as zej)hyr's breath. 
That lightly fans the couch of death. 

« Father, Thy child would know Thy Avill, 
She waits Thy purpose to fulfil ; 
Unchained from sense, she fain would be, 
In holiest bonds now joined to Thee." 



138 POEMS. 

All conflicts in her breast here cease, 
The vestal's soul is hushed to peace ; 
While o'er her head, a shining form 
Bends like the bow, when passed the storm. 

Whom Heaven would bless He calls to mourn 
Hence scourge and crown, by angel borne ; 
And well each suffering saint doth know, 
'Tis Love's own hand deals every blow. 

Whence come the shadow, whence the ray 
That blending 'mid those tresses stray ? 
From scourge and crown, unseen by her, 
The pure and saint-like worshipi^er. 

" Maiden, on thee are doomed to fall 
Woes that the stoutest might appall ; 
See, scourge and crown — the last they lose. 
Whose faithless hearts the first refuse." 

Thus spoke the angel with a smile. 
But naught heard Agnes, all the while, 
Save Duty's voice — the voice of God, 
Which calls his own to wreath and rod. 

Vouchsafe me. Father, strength divine. 
To make the choice of Agnes mine ; 
Thy scourge with Christ-like heart to bear. 
While shining ones my crown i^repare. 



Sr. AGNES. 139 

Unrivalled, among womankind 
This Roman maiden's name we find ; 
Agnes means Lamb — and lamb-like she 
In meekness, patience, purity. 

Long be it hung on memory's walls, 
This pictured scene the pen recalls ; 
So bid thy heart the lesson trace 
That naught its moral may erase. 

Like Agnes live, and thou shalt know 
Rest, calm and saint-like, here below ; 
While to thy soul will peace be given, 
True peace, like that which reigns in heaven. 



SONG OF THE CONTENTED ONE. 

Once, in a quiet village home, 

This cheerful song was heard ; 
The melody seemed sweeter far, 

Than carol of a bird ; 
I i:)aused and listened to the notes, 

As they stole, one by one ; 
But I may not tell who tuned the lay 

That blithely thus begun : 

" Contented, yes, contented — 

Why should I ask for more ? 
Though all may call my stock but small. 

Say scanty is my store. 
A home where calm-browed Peace presides. 

Where Love holds gentle sway ; 
Drives dark suspicion and distrust 

From heart and hearth away. 

True, ours is not a dainty board, 

With foreign luxuries spread ; 
But frugal is our daily fare — 

Old-fashioned, home-made bread ; 



SOIfG OF THE CONTENTED ONE. 141 

With treasures from the garden, field, 

Fruits, butter, milk, and meat. 
And be the table e'er so full. 

One more may find a seat. 

Nor are these outward comforts all, — 

Our plain book-shelves are lined 
With choicest, rarest gems of thought — 

Food for the deathless mind. 
These feasts of reason charm the taste, 

And inspiration give ; 
A halo fling o'er household ways. 

And teach us how to live. 

What though our parlor be not graced 

With costly works of art ? 
Its walls are hung with pictured scenes. 

That waken in the heart 
Fond memories of other times. 

Of sunny childhood's years ; 
While gazing on them, eyes have oft 

Grown dim with gushing tears. 

The rosy dawn of every morn 

That through my casement streams. 

Calls fortli a song of praise to Him 
Wlio giveth slec]) and dreams ; 



142 POEMS. 

And nightly with a praye: for all, 

I grateful seek my bed, 
With tender thoughts of Him, who had 

Not where to lay His head. 

Come daily to our dear abode. 

Those bowed with secret care ; 
And 'tis our highest, purest joy 

The mourner's giief to share ; 
Their spirits cheer, whose cherished hopes 

Have known a withering blight ; 
And tell them of His changeless love. 

Who makes the burden light. 

Our sky is not a cloudless one. 

No mortal's e'er has been ; 
But ever, in the darkest hour. 

Our Father's face is seen ; 
When through the furnace w^alking. 

One with celestial form 
Assures us both shall work for good, — 

Life's sunshine and its storm. 

Contented, yes, contented — 
Heaven grant that every home 

May shadow forth the perfect bliss 
Of that bright world to come ; 



ESTELLE. 143 

When naught but cahn contentment reigns, 

All earth-born sorrows o'er ; 
The soul's deep yearnings satisfied — 

What could it ask for more ? " 

The singer ceased — the song was done — 

It closed with that j^ure i^rayer ; 
And now a hallowed s^iell seems left 

On this still evening air ; 
I catch a glimpse of stars, that gleam 

In yon blue arch above ; 
And fancy them the lamps that light 

Our Father's home of love. 



ESTELLE. 



We called her Estelle, and her name means a 

star — 
Her beauty and brightness not death's touch 

could mar, — 
She jjassed from our sight, like some fair orb of 

even — 
But Vv'ith lustre undimmed, still our star shines 

in heaven. 



V 

THE OLD-FASHIONED FIRE. 

A SONG for the fire, the old-fashioned fire, 
With its andirons made of brass, iron, or wire ; 
The tongs and the shovel, that shine like pure 

gold. 
The bellows that children love dearly to hold ; 
While, guarding the sitting-room carpet with care. 
Stands a high lattice fender, with sentinel air. 

The dry chestnut wood, as it snaps out a spark. 
How it rings, like a pistol popped off at a mark ; 
While the roar of the flame, as higher it rises. 
Would deafen the judge in a court of assizes ; 
And O ! how forgetful a man must become. 
If he cannot remember the tea-kettle's hum. 

As it hangs on the crane, just over the blaze. 
And swings on the hook, — like a song of old 

days 
Will its murmur still linger on memory's ear 
Till all is forgot, I was wont to hold dear ! 



THE OLD-FASHIONED FIRE. 145 

But brightest of all, round this old-fashioned 

hearth 
Were once beaming fair faces, no more seen on 

earth. 

But their memory comes o'er me, like songs and 

sweet flowers, 
To gladden my spirit in sorrow's dark hours ; 
Though welcome their jDresence, not long may it 

stay. 
For like song and sweet flower, they have faded 

away ! 
Then a song for the fire, the old-fashioned fire, 
Though stove, grate, and furnace, our moderns 

admire. 

I love and I long for the old-fashioned days, 
When all kind thoughts seemed warmed into life 

by its blaze ; 
And O ! how I yearn for a sight of that home, 
From whose cheerful hearth-side no more would 

I roam ; 
But — my lamp's going out, and I've broken my 

lyre, 
While tuning its strings by this old-fashioned 

fire. 



THE BROKEN LYRE AND THE KEY. 

I ONCE broke my lyre, but now tune it again, 
The key I employ is my little quill-pen, 
Which will not stay idle, though oft I have tried 
To bid it lie quiet the inkstand beside. 

But now my lyre's mended, what theme shall I 
choose ? 

Will grave or gay jDlease best thy fancy, O muse ! 

Speak quickly, and tell me what song I shall 
sing, 

But, remember my quill-key once graced a goose- 
wing. 

But that matters little, great deeds are oft done ; 
Hard battles are fought and j)roud victories 

won 
By means quite obscure, and my j)en may have 

come 
From the wins:; of the sasje goose that once saved 

Rome. 



TEE BROKEN LYEE AND THE KEY. 147 

Though humble my strains, if they cheer one sad 

heart, 
If to one stricken spirit they comfort impart, 
I ne'er shall regret that I mended the lyre, 
Which I broke yester-eve by our old-fashioned 

fire. 



THE GOOD TIME COME. 

The human niincl, men will not bind, 

Enchain it like a slave ; 
No ; it shall be a thing as free 

As ocean's bounding wave ; 
For Love's the si^ell, that M'orketh well, 

All evil to destroy ; 
In every home, the good time come. 

Shall fill each breast with joy. 

The human soul will none control, 

But all shall hear it sing 
Of fetters riven, of hoj^e and heaven, 

And Truth shall nerve its wing ; 
For Love's the spell, that worketh well. 

All evil to destroy ; 
In every home, the good time come, 

Shall fill each breast with joy. 

The human heart, unschooled in art, 
Will naught but right approve ; 

Good will to all, both great and small, 
Its secret springs shall move ; 



THE GOOD TIME COME. 149 

For Love's the spell, that worketh well, 

All evil to destroy ; 
In every home, the good time come, 

Shall fill each breast Avith joy. 

The human form, radiant and warm, 

Will angel beauty wear ; 
No trace remain, of sickness, pain, 

Of sorrow, guilt, or care ; 
For Love's the spell, that worketh well. 

All evil to desti'oy ; 
Li every home, the good time come, 

Shall fill each breast with joy. 

Each man will then an Adam be. 

And every woman Eve ; 
While Peace again shall dwell with men. 

And all like brothers live ; 
For Love's the spell, that worketh well, 

All evil to destroy ; 
In every home, the good time come. 

Shall fill each breast with joy. 

Thus Eden lost, will Heaven restore. 
Holme's fadeless flowers shall bloom ; 

Man's only strife by sinless life. 
To give to sin a tomb ; 



150 POEMS. 

For Love's the spell, that worketh well, 

All evil to destroy ; 
In every home, the good time come, 

Shall fill each breast with joy. 

The good time come ! ring, joy-bells, ring, 
For dove-eyed Peace, with snow-white wing. 
O'er earth her olive branch shall fling. 
Then all sliall this glad chorus sing — 
For Love's the s^^ell, tliat worketh well, 

All evil to destroy ; 
In every home, the good time come, 

Shall fill each breast with joy. 



THE RIDDLE SOLVED 

I HEARD one marvel, and exclaim, — 

I wonder how he'll end ! 
To me it is no mystery, 

And why, I'll tell thee, friend. 

The man who sows a field with wheat, 

Is sure to reap the same ; 
But if his harvest shall be tares. 

He has himself to blame. 

Life hath two roads, they both are ours. 

To choose or to reject; 
But ere the question he decides, 

A wise man will reflect. 

As at the gate of Paradise 

An angel-guard was seen. 
So conscience in the human breast 

Wields double sword, and keen. 



152 POEMS 

And friendly guide-boards, too, abound. 

At every turn they stand ; 
To virtue, right — to vice and wrong, 

They point with steady hand. 

The latter take, and time will prove 

The folly of thy choice ; 
But all who in the former walk. 

Shall in the end rejoice. 

With honest purpose, heart sincere, 
Pure mind, and upright soul ; 

Speed for the Right, whate'er betide, 
And thou shalt win the goal. 

If trial's thorny path we tread, 
With weary, Avounded feet, 

Our rest will all the sweeter be, 
When we our race complete. 

To Duty's earnest, pleading voice, 

But lend a listening ear ; 
And gentle Peace shall solace thee 

With songs of hope and cheer. 

Who live for others, and for God, 

A blessing shall attend ; 
Such find on earth true happmess. 

And Heaven will be their end. 



THE RIDDLE SOLVED. 153 

But who for self and evil strive, 
Though high or low their state, 

Shall live itnloved, and die immourned. 
And this must be their fate. 

Now, should we hear a man exclaim, 

"I wonder how he'll end," 
These thoughts will help us each to solve 

The riddle for our friend. 



SONG OF PEACE. 

" Good will and peace ! " what song so sweet ? 
Foi* angel tongues, what theme so meet '? 
Let mortals join to swell the strain, 
And echo back the glad refrain. 

" Good will and peace ! " both sage and seer, 
In vision saw it drawing near ; 
The day when in each human breast 
Peace, white-winged dove, shall build a nest. 

" Good will and peace ! " Heaven speed the hour 
When all shall own Love's conquering jJower, 
When every voice, in every clime, 
With joy shall hail the promised time. 

" Good will and jDeace ! " what song so sweet ? 
For angel tongues, what theme so meet ? 
Let mortals join to swell the strain, 
And echo back the sflad refrain. 



THE DEAD. 

"Weep not for the holy dead, cahnly they rest, 
Their bark safely moored by the Isles of the 

Blest ; 
But weep for the living, on Time's troubled sea, 
Their hope-freighted bark may a shattered wreck 

be. 

Yes, weep for the living, weep not for the dead. 
For the captive soul freed, from its jDrison-houso 

fled; 
Should we grieve for the song-bird from falling 

nest flown. 
That softly sings, soaring, I fly to my own ! 

The peasant, now prince, the hut changed for 

hall, 
A robe, crown, and palace for shroud, cofiin, pall ; 
O ! vision most holy, who questions their gain 
Who have passed to the land where is never more 

pain ? 



156 POEMS. 

Long, weary the march, yet their faltering feet 
Ne'er halted to rest, mid the dust and the heat ; 
Though rugged the pathway, and thorny the road, 
In faith they j^ressed on, bravely bearing their 
load. 

Now triumph is theirs, for life's battle is o'er 
The din of the conflict shall deafen no more ; 
The struggle was fierce, the fight hard and long, 
But it ended at last in the conqueror's song. 

Yes, weep for the living, on Time's troubled sea. 
Their hope-freighted bark may a shattered wreck 

be ; 
But mourn not the holy dead, calmly they rest. 
Their bark safely moored by the Isles of the 

Blest. 



WHY SHOULD I STAY ? 

Why should I stay ? — the world hath lost its 
power 
To lure my spirit froui its destined home — 
The stem is broken, drooping is the flower — 
The leaves are fading, and the tempests lower — 
For me earth hath no charm, 
Why should I stay ? 

Why should I stay ? — when wintry storms arise, 
When autumn blasts have leafless left the trees. 
The song-bird plumes its wings for sunnier skies. 
The nest forsakes, nor wastes its breath in sighs — 
Thus would I speed my flight : 
Why should I stay ? 

Why should I stay ? — the loved are gone before ; 

Tliey on whose breast in infancy I leaned ; 
The haven gained, life's stormy voyage o'er. 
Moored is their bark — on yonder jjeacef ul shore 

They wait to welcome me — 
Why should I stay '? 



158 POEMS. 

Why should I stay ? — when heaven reveals its 
light ; 
I see its ])ecar]y gate, its crystal stream ; 
Here forms I love grow shadowy to my sight, — 
Thus fade the things of Time, in death's dark 
night — 
Thy dawn, Eternity, is just in view — 
Why should I stay ? 

Why should I stay ? — why linger here below, 
Where joy but ends in grief — hojDe's light is 
quenched in tears ; 
There, all is glad fruition, none have cause of 

\voe. 
Since I have told you why I long to go, 
Tell me, ye loved of Earth, 
Why should I stay ? 

Why should I stay ? — dumb is each tongue. I 
hear 
No answer to my earnest question given — 
Silent the lip, but speaks the glistening tear — 
The welcome sound of chariot-wheels breaks on 
my ear. 
They wait to bear me hence, 
Why should I stay ? 



THE OLD HEARTH-RUG. 

My muse awhile, on folded wing, 
Would pause, a song of love to sing, 
Of times gone by, and bright wood fires, 
Which every man of sense admires ; 
Of water pure, in brown-stone jug, 
But most of thee, my old hearth-rug. 

For many years good friends we've been. 
And many changes we have seen ; 
I well remember that bright day, 
When on the hearth this new rug lay ; 
With pride and joy my young heart beat, 
As first I i^ressed it 'neath my feet. 

I marked its colors, rich and rare, 

No hearth-rug might with mine compare ; 

I could not half its beauty tell, — 

And when the fire-light on it fell. 

The fair flowers yielded to my tread ; 

Those flowers, alas ! look j^ale and dead. 



160 POEMS. 

And where are they who met me here ? 
I seek them, but they are not near ; 
Far in the past they silent stand, 
With shadowy form, and upraised hand ; 
Now, one by one, they're moving slow. 
Back to the OTave of lon2:-a2:o. 

On matron's, maiden's, manhood's brow. 
The damp death-mould has gathered now ; 
Yet, old hearth-rug, thou lingerest here. 
And over thee I drop a tear, 
In sad remembrance of those days, 
When eyes now closed did on thee gaze. 

My old hearth-rug ! the sparkling jest. 
The well-told tale, the word that blest ; 
The holy hymn, the pleasant song, 
Are memories which around thee throng; 
Friends have passed on, and left their trace 
On thee, and in their vacant place. 

And now, we both are growing old. 

The fact needs scarcely to be told ; 

The roses on my cheek are pale, 

And Time's rude hand doth thine assail ; 

We're wearing out — brown shreds are seen. 

Where once were leaves of shining green. 



THE OLD HEARTH-RUG. ICl 

I mark the change in thee and me, 
Nor would I from my mentor flee ; 
My own dark locks to gray will turn — 
Time ! let me ne'er thy caution spurn ; 
Thy pen hath graven on my heart, — 
My rug and I at length must j^art. 

Though rent and faded, burnt and worn. 
Ere to oblivion it is borne ; 
I tune my harp, it is but due. 
My old hearth-rug, to sing of you. 
Would that all human friends might prove 
As worthy of a song of love. 



LIVE BY THE DAY. 

Live by the day, 'tis the happiest way, 

Nor take anxious thought for the morrow ; 
What though the wind blow? the past doth but 
show 
New strength from each struggle we borrow. 
Live by the day. 

Live by the day — wherever you stray. 
This motto engrave on tlie breast ; 

It whispers of cheer, when trouble is near 
Thus soothing thy sorrows to rest. 
Live by the day. 

Live by the day — this counsel obey. 

And win in the battle of life ; 
Whose watchword is Hope, with the worst ills 
may cope. 
And victor jirove, too, in the strife. 
Live by the day. 

Live by the day — no cankering care 
Need furrow the brow, or whiten the hair ; 



LIVE BY THE DAY. 1G3 

For just within siglit is tliat dwelling of bliss, 
Where they think with a smile on the trials of this. 
Live by the day. 

Live by the day — life is passing away, 

How quick chase each other December and May ; 

Thus blighting and gloom, yield to beauty and 

bloom — 
The glad morn of heaven for the night of the tomb. 
Live by the day. 



HER BIRTHDAY IN HEAVEN. 

IIer birthday in Heaven ! there is joy in the 

thought, 
A joy with the heart's deei^est tenderness 

fraught ; 
Could liunian love ask for its hark of liope more 
Than anchorage safe on that beautiful shore ? 

Yes ! anchorage safe — for never again, 

Shall tempests assail lier, nor sorrow, nor pain ; 

No sharp throb of anguish shall darken that 

brow, 
Now cloudless and pure as the fresh-fallen snow. 

Tlie rich gifts of love thou hadst thought to 

bestow. 
She needeth them not where the crystal streams 

flow; 
For there, in that clime, where no mortal hath 

been, 
The treasures are found human eye hath not 

seen. 



HER BIRTHDAY IN HEAVEN. 165 

More glorious far than tlie diamond gem, 

Is the radiant crown wliich One giveth to them, 

Whose meekness, faitli, patience, and heavenly 

love, 
Have made the soul meet for its bright home 

above. 

Her birthday in Heaven ! — and it may not be 

long 
Ere your voice will join hers in the sweet angel's 

song; 
Then famt not, though now to your trembling 

lips given, 
Is this tender refrain of — Her birthday in 

heaven. 



BEAUTIFUL INCIDENT. 

The rosy light of a summer eve, 
O'er hill and valley lay, 

And lingered long, as if to leave 
A blessing on the day. 

The village bell had sweetly tolled 

Its chime npon the air ; 
To summon to their hallowed fold, 

The worshipj^ers for prayer. 

The organ's deep and solemn peals 
Fell on the listening ear ; 

As o'er the senses gently steals 
The feeling — God is near ! 

A youthful preacher rose, and took 
His theme — 'twas Jesus' love ; 

When lo ! beside the sacred Book, 
There stood a snow-white dove. 



BEAUTIFUL INCIDENT. 167 

With timid gaze and folded wing, 

It }3aused, tlien soared away ; 
In vain we sought to track its course, 

In vain we bade it stay. 

Onward and upward, still it flew. 

Till not a speck was seen ; 
To tell that in the vault of blue, 

Its graceful form had been. 

I know not if the thought be wrong, 

But it hath seemed to me, 
That some meek herald from the skies, 

That gentle bird might be : 

To teach us if to innocence, 

Our days on earth are given ; 
We too may plume our spirit's wings, 

And take our flight for heaven. 

The memory of that Sabbath eve, 

That quiet, sunset scene ; 
Did on my heart an impress leave. 

From which this truth I glean. 

That Nature's simplest lessons tend 

To show some moral plain ; 
For, on the page that God bath penned. 

No line is writ in vain. 



A MYSTERY. 

Not till our utter helplessness, 
We own, and deeply mourn ; 

In human hearts are holy strength, 
And faith's bright day-star born. 

In vain the wise and prudent seek 

The riddle to unfold — 
How weakness can o'er might prevail, 

And feeblest ones wax bold. 

How giant errors flee, and fall. 

And vanish one by one ; 
When in the name of Truth and Right, 

A strong hand hurls the stone. 

O grand and solemn mystery 

Of flowing rock, and budding rod — 

In vain we seek your depths to sound, 
O secret thinsrs of God ! 



THE MOUXT. 

When anxious cares corrode tlie breast, 
And sad forebodings rise ; 
"When sore temptations me molest, 
And sorrow robs me of my rest ; 
Jesus ! I trembling look to Thee, 
And tearful turn to Calvary. 

When griefs assail, and trials come. 

When anguish aims its dart ; 

When earthly hopes have found a tomb — 

Sweet thoughts of Heaven dispel my gloom 

For, Jesus ! then I look to thee, 

And prayerful turn to Calvary. 

When foes are fierce, friends found untrue, 

When all is dark and drear ; 

I think on grace, and glory too — 

How conquest out of conflict grew, 

And, Jesus ! then I look to Thee, 

And grateful turn to Calvary. 



170 POEMS. 

When feeble pulses, beating slow, 
Warn of life's Avaning hour ; 
Then, Jesus ! may I joyful know, 
That Thou canst dying grace bestow ; 
That not in vain I've looked to Thee — 
And turned in faith to Calvary. 

What rajjture o'er the soul Avill steal, 

When through Eternity ; 

This Jesus shall his love reveal, 

Who died the heart's deep wounds to heal 

Salvation's stream still flows from Thee, 

O ! sacred, blood-stained Calvary. 

Thou Holy Mount ! from thee we learn 

Our daily cross to bear ; 

When burdens press, to thee Ave turn. 

And find new zeal within us burn : 

Then never let forgotten be 

The debt Ave owe to Calvary. 



THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE. 

Away from her home near the wildwood, 
Away from her parents' hearth ; 

Away from the scenes of her childhood 
The loved one passed from earth. 

By strangers' hands, she was carried 
To her rest, in the forest drear ; 

While not a mourner tarried, 
To shed o'er her turf, a tear. 

Her grave you can scarce discover. 

The marble marks it not ; 
But angels round it hover, 

To guard the holy siwt. 

And Avhile bright watch they're keeping. 

They softly seem to say — 
" She is not dead, but sleeping, 

To wake in cloudless day." 



172 POEMS. 

The glad stream leaps from its fountain, 
The sun seeks the golden west ; 

The wild bird hies to the mountain, 
And to heaven I'eturn the blest. 



VENUS. 

With eyes ui:)lifted, heavenward turning, 
With deep and tender, untold yearning ; 
With thoughts, like evening's crystal dew, 
I gaze on yonder vault of blue. 

What, O ! what art thou, beautiful one. 
That follows the radiant track of the sun ? 
Silent, and solemn, and grand, and sublime. 
Through space is thy march to the rhythm of 
Time. 

O ! answer me — art thou the orb of night. 
The herald, that guided the sages aright. 
Whose feet, o'er the hills of Judea were led 
In safety and peace, to that strange stable-bed ? 

And was it thy errand, to tell of his birth. 

The Light of the world, and the Hope of the 

earth ? 
Speak, speak, ye fair dwellers in mansions afar, 
And tell me the tale of yon beautiful star. 



174 POEMS. 

I pause, but no voice to my question replies, 
The stillness is death-like, that reigns in the 

skies ; 
But in my soul's chambers, a sweet silver chime. 
In joyous peals, rings in this glad Christmas 

time. 

And so, I think thou art the star. 
That led the wise ones from afar ; 
And still thy mission is, as then. 
To lift from earth the thoughts of men. 

O ! star of mystery — still shine — 
Since all true souls for true light pine ; 
Till every human heart shall be 
Birth-i^lace and throne — O Christ ! for Thee. 



NOT MY WAY, LORD. 

Not my way, Lord— lest it sboiild be 

A way that leadetb far from Thee ; 

I dare not ask, the hehn to guide 

On Time's rough, surging, treacherous tide. 

Not ray way, Lord — when billows roar, 
Steer Thou my bark in safety o'er 
Their foaming crest, to waveless sea. 
To where the heavenly mansions be. 

Not my way. Lord — tears fall like rain — 
The cross is heavy, sharp the pain — 
The cup is bitter, black the cloud, 
That doth my path and heart enshroud. 

Not my way, Lord — the glittering gem 
That decks the Victor's diadem ; 
Once fell perchance from human eye — 
The weeper's passport to the sky. 



176 POEMS. 

Not my way, Lord — the goal is near, 
E'en now the angels' songs I hear; 
My voice with theirs, in sweet accord 
Would join to sing — not my way, Lord. 



MY DOVE. 

I SING not of the Raven, 

Tliat bii-cl of omen ill ; 
But of a timid white-winged Dove, 

That i:)ecketh with her bill 
Upon my cottage window, | 

And softly seems to say — 
I tidings bear to thee of one, 

From the home-nest flown away. 

I am not superstitious, 

In signs to put my faith ; 
To credit every idle Avord, 

The wandering gypsy saith : 
But Nature hath her under-tones, 

Tones from my childhood dear ; 
And many are the lessons wise. 

She whispers in my ear. 

In early years, I loved to sit. 

Beside the open door. 
My spirit chiming to the waves, 

That break on wisdom's shore : 



178 POEMS. 

And now, my bucket I would drop, 
In Truth's deep hidden well ; 

In hoiDB to draw thence shinhig pearls. 
Whose worth no tongue can tell. 

The wind's low moan, the insect's hum, 

Both say strange things to me ; 
In my Dove's face, I meaning trace, 

And something human see ; 
That speaks of tender yearning, 

Of love, no change can know ; 
Of heaven-born friendship, tried and true. 

And pure as spotless snow. 

I question not deep mysteries. 

But leave them to the sage ; 
Content to read the simpler truths. 

Inscribed on Nature's page — 
And from this gentle monitor. 

My timid, white-winged Dove ; 
I daily seek, by heart to learn, 

Life's holiest lesson — Love. 



THE PRISON-BORN. 

Two blue eyes open on the light, 

Of gloomy dungeon walls ; 
What sounds are these, which greet the ear? 

A helpless infant calls : 
These faint and feeble wailings. 

My soul with sadness fill ; 
Heaven grant to shield the prison-born. 

And guard that soul from ill. 

O ! never more from Duty's path, 

May gentle woman roam — 
What crime hath brought this mother here — 

Far from her childhood's home ? 
My answer comes in broken sobs, 

A sigh, and stifled moan ; 
Another's cheeks are wet with tears, 

The child weeps not alone. 

Fair Babe, as in a desert waste, 
A sweet spring flower may bloom ; 

As kindly gleam from Mercy's lamp, 
May visit error's tomb : 



180 POEMS. 

As one bright ray, from Hope's lone star, 
Despair's dark night may cheer ; 

An angel in a sepulchre — 
Like these thou seemest here. 

When Spartan mothers taught their sons 

A monster vice to spurn ; 
They showed the drunken Helot's shame, 

And bade them wisdom learn : 
In future years, O ! be it thine 

Temptation's voice to shun ; 
And in a palace thou mayest close 

A life in prison begun. 

The moonbeam gathers naught of stain 

When resting on the earth ; 
Thus to the soul no taint need cling 

Though low its place of birth : 
And cradled in a gloomy cell. 

The Prison-Born may Avear 
A crown, which some in palaces 

Might humbly beg to share. 



WONDERINGS. 

Where do the birds hide at night ? 

When their soaring and singing are done. 
Wliere do they wait for the morning light — 

For the first golden gleam of the sun ? 

Where do the birds hide at night ? 

When stai'S looking down from the skies, 
Like sentinels watch o'er the sleeping earth ; 

Then, where do birds close their bright eyes ? 

Where do the birds hide at night ? 

Or, when rages the j^itiless storm, 
Doth any one care for the fowls of the air, 

And shelter them safe from all harm ? 

Where do the birds hide at night ? 

Who taught them to fold their fleet wings ? 
Who purifies the ray of the dawning day ? 

Whence cometh the peace that from penitence 
springs ? 



182 POEMS. 

Who numbers those orbs that shed light on all 

lands ? 
Who looseth Orion's bright silvery bands ? 
Who knoweth the place wliere the lost Pleiad 

hides? 
Why sway 'neath yon moon the swift answering 

tides '? 

Where do the birds hide at night? 

O ! when will our wonderings end ? 
Thou ocean — wliat holds back tliy slumbering 
might ? 
Ye clouds — how in drops do your treasures 
descend ? 

Who steers the black cloud with the thunderbolt 

riven ? 
Who guides the white soul on its pathway to 

heaven ? 
And who, in the fathomless depths of the sea, 
Bids pearls faintly image His own Purity ? 

Who perfumes the lily — who painteth the rose ? 
Who hushes sad hearts to a lioly repose ? 
Though answer these (piestions the wise may 

aright 
Still, I wondering ask — AVhere the birds hide at 

nisxlit ? 



OXLY LISTEN. 

Ox the spirit's ear there linger. 

Often linger, like a spell, 
Sounds, as if an infant's finger 

Touched a silver bell : 
Now the strains are slow and sad, 

Now more cheerful ; 
As the heart is grieved or glad. 

Hoping or fearful. 

Only listen ! 

Only listen ! — they are speaking. 

Voices speaking sweet and low ; 
Sweet as perfumed breath of summer. 

Tuneful as the brooklet's flow : 
When a look unkind is given, 

When an angry word is said ; 
Hark ! they whisper — patience, pardon, 

Bend the knee, and bow the head. 
Only listen ! 



184 POEMS. 

Warning now, then chiding, cheering, 

With a song of pleasant land. 
Where the careworn brow and furrowed 

Is by heavenly zephyrs fanned : 
O ! bid welcome these dear Voices, 

For from lijDS of Love they come ; 
In the soul they make sweet music, 

When all human tongues are dumb. 
Only listen ! 

Many-toned these inward Voices — 

Ever pleading for the right ; 
Only listen, they will teach thee 

How the burden is made light : 
When each earthly passion slumbers. 

O'er the spirit gently steal 
These soft chimes, whose soothing numbers 

Come like balm, heart-wounds to heal. 
Only listen ! 



A FOE AND A FRIEND. 

A FOE and a friend 

On man's pathway attend, 
One nerves Lim with life's ills to coj^e ; 

Tells of courage to bear, 

And to banish despair, 
He cheerily whispers of Hope. 

Not so with the foe, 

Wherever we go, 
He follows with dark, frowning face ; 

No kind words of cheer. 

From his thin lips we hear, 
He bodes only ill to our race. 

The spectre grim, in memory's hall — 
That binds the soul in terror's thrall ; 
The raven's croak, the owlet's scream — 
The nightmai'c of a troubled dream — 
But faint types these of that deep gloom 
Wliich dark Distrust flings o'er Hope's tomb. 



186 pot: MS. 

But calm-browecl Trust — meek angel, stands 
With upturned gaze, and folded hands ; 
In sorrow's night she soothes the breast 
With visions fair of heaven and rest ; 
Pure, loving thoughts, celestial flowers. 
She brings to cheer Doubt's saddest hours. 

Shall foe or friend 

Thy path attend ? 
To each, to all, the choice is given ; 

Decide with care, 

Of Doubt beware — 
The foe, Distrust, ne'er enters heaven. 



THE CIRCASSIAN SLAVE. 

See Cashmere's peerless daughter 

Within the harem stand ; 
A princely sum hath bought her, 

The fairest of the land ; 
Clad in a robe of snowy white, 

Pure as her maiden soul ; 
Her pea:-ls were tears, heart-gushing tears, 

Which through dark lashes stole. 

With heavy heart and downcast eye. 

She heeded not his voice 
Who welcomed her, the harem's queen, 

Of many slaves his choice : 
She shunned him, as some i^oisonous thing. 

She spurned his proffered Avreath ; 
A noble bird, with fettered wing, 

Hear how she prays for death. 

" May He who gave, recall my breath " — 
'Tis an awful j^rayer, this prayer for death. 
For love of life with life is born ; 
The heart may bleed, the flesh be torn, 



188 POEMS. 

The cup of woe to its dregs men drink 
Yet from the cold, damp grave they shrink — 
Thy requiem, Hoj^e, must first be sung 
Ere this fearful j^rayer escape the tongue ! 

The generous Imri sees her tears, 

With i^ity her sad moaning hears ; 

A charm to chase her grief he souglit, 

And gems to win her love are bought ; 

She heeds them not, but paler grows 

Her downy cheek, where bloomed the rose ; 

Despair sits brooding at her heart. 

Well pleased she feels life's strong links part. 

Yet, she was young to die — 
Had earth no joy for her? 
No holy task, no mission high ? 
These thoughts her bosom stir. 
Such deep soul-yearnings, with kind Heaven 
have jDOwer, 
And though no words her trembling lips have 
spoken, 
She formed a purpose, and in prosperous hour 
The gilded cage this captive bird hath broken. 

By patient toil, a pittance now she gains, 
And finds a secret joy in all her pains ; 



THE CIRCASSIAN SLAVE. 189 

What though by labor daily bread she earned ? 

Still Imri's proffered gift she j^roudly spurned. 

First ground to dust, then back the gems re- 
signed, 

Those costly gems, which Virtue's self might 
blind. 

No power have they fair Zulide's heart to 
move — 

Alas ! that shining toy should e'er buy woman's 
love. 

This tale of the Circassian slave, 

With pride her sex will read ; 
And breathe a prayer, that other fair 

May Zulide's warning heed — 
Ne'er be thou sold for settlement, 

Or barter love for gold. 
Thy pledge I gain ? then not in vain 

Is Zulide's story told. 



THE MANIAC'S SONG. 

" I TIRE of the land, with its gardens and bowers, 
Its verdure and beauty, its fruits and its flowers ; 
The earth seems a tomb where my hojDes are all 

laid — 
See Death, the grim sexton, he leans on his sj^ade. 

Haste, bear me away to my home, to the grave, 
Make the ocean my bed, my pillow the wave ; 
Though rudely the tempest above me may sweep, 
'Twill serve but to lull me more gently to sleep. 

A crown for my head will old Neptune prepare. 
The mermaids shall make me their tenderest care ; 
With them will I watch o'er the slumbering dead, 
Unheeding the billows that break o'er my head. 

My palace with gems richly studded shall be, 
A fitting abode for those nymphs of the sea, 
Who waft to my door in their chariots of foam 
Poor mortals who ne'er will see kindred or home. 

How it dazzles my eyes, that light in the skies — 
The sun shines at midnight — I see it arise ; 



THE MANIAC'S SONG. 191 

A cloud now comes o'er it, 'tis dark at midday, 
Nor sun, moon, or star cheers the wanderer's way. 

I'm weary, I'm faint, my brain's in a whirl, 
See ! a ship is in sight, its sails they unfurl ; 
Fast, fast it is nearing — it touches the shore, 
I'm on board — we are off, to return never more ! 

Old ocean receives us — no fond mother's breast 
Ever pillowed more sweetly her infant to rest ; 
My spirit grows calmer, low murmurs I hear. 
The voices of loved ones sound sweet to my ear. 

They tell of two homes of sunshine and joy. 
And one I remember, 'twas mine when a boy ; 
The other they say, yet to me shall be given. 
And the friends I have lost I shall find them in 
heaven." 

A smile lights up the maniac's face, and see those 

gushing tears, 
Such drops as these, such precious drops, he has 

not shed for years ; 
Reason returns, resumes her throne, he is himself 

again , 
And now, with chastened spirit, takes his place 

with other men. 



192 POEMS. 

Perhaps thou knowest such a one, for such some- 
times we see, 

Remember lie thy brother is, and like him thou 
mayest be ; 

For the human harp that sweetly plays, slight 
cause may break a string, 

And thou some day a maniac's song in close- 
barred cell may'st sing. 



LITTLE FOLLIES. 

Little follies — wisdom pleadeth — 
Shun them, for they leave a sting ; 

Seri^ent-like, they charm to harm thee, 
Heed not, though the siren sing. 

Guard thou well the heart's fair garden. 
Little foxes spoil the vines ; 

Proudest craft the ocean beareth, 
Smallest insect undermines. 

Stately tree, with spreading branches. 
That for years defied the storm ; 

Conquered, hath at last surrendered 
To the sceptre of a worm. 

Castle high to heaven towering, 

Founded firmly on a rock ; 
Tiny spark may lay in ashes, 

Blackened heaps its glory mock. 



194 POEMS. 

Some there are revered in story, 
Honored names of patriot, sage ; 

"Would that stain of little follies 
Sullied not their memory's j^age. 

Friendly warning, sailor heeding, 
Trims the sail, and plies the oar ; 

Skilful jiilot, quicksand clearing. 
Safely gains his bark the shore. 

Thus in others' little follies 

Beacon-lights the wise discern ; 

And by timely watch and caution, 
They to good the evil turn. 

"What some call but little follies, 
Foibles, peccadillos slight ; 

Grievous wrongs in Virtue's eyes are. 
Heinous crimes in Heaven's sight. 

Little follies — jireacher — hearer. 
Merchant, statesman, artisan ; 

Sjiurn their fetters, be true freemen, 
In self-conquest lead the van. 

Thus we'll speed the good time coming, 
Eden bliss shall mortals see ; 

"When souls like a 2:)olished mirror, 
Image perfect Purity. 



MY MENTOR. 

In Bronze. 

There stands beside my escritoire, 

A venerable form ; 
His face is grave, but eloquent 

Of feeling pure and warm ; 
I ne'er have seen his lips unclose. 

By night, nor yet by day ; 
But ever when I take the pen, 

I hear him softly say — 

O ! sully not the snowy page 

With what, in after years. 

May mantle with a blush thy cheek, 

Or cause regretful tears : 

Know, that a single drop of ink, 

A million minds hath stirred ; 

And mighty power to wound or heal. 

Lies in the written word. 

The sail speeds by, and naught remains, 

To mark the yielding wave ; 
Tliough freighted be the bark with death, 

Or bearing help to save : 



196 POEMS. 

Air-vessels are the words we speak 
We launch them on the wind ; 

A moment — and the aerial craft 
May leave no wake behind. 

But not thus with the written thought — 

The line your careless pen, 
Shall prove, in after years, the source 

Of ill, or good to men : 
A sacred, holy trust, is thine, 

O scribe, abuse it not ; 
Nor write what dying thou may'st wish. 

With burning tears to blot. 

Thanks to thee — faithful monitor — 

Thy caution, kindly given. 
Sounds like a sainted father's voice, 

Speaking from yon blue heaven — 
I bow me to thy counsels sago. 

Thou mentor, old and gray ; 
So shall thy wisdom consecrate 

Both page and pen to-day. 



SONG FOR THANKSGIVING. 

There's a day of the year — how sweet its name 

sounds, 
At its mention the heart of each little child 

bounds ; 
When all are assembled around the fireside, 
Old folks, youths and maidens, the bridegroom 

and bride ; 
The knitting's laid by, the yarn is all spun. 
The feasting is followed by stories and fun ; 
The housewife is blushing to hear her guests 

say — 
" They've not had such a dinner for many a 

day : " 
Then see that wood-fire on the old-fashioned 

hearth, 
But few can resist its loud summons to mirth ; 
Though the flame seems an emblem of those who 

are gone. 
For it dies, and we find but a lonely heartli- 

stone. 
Yet the scene is a gay one, as long as it lasts, 
Though oft when they smile, a cloud overcasts 



198 P0E3IS. 

The brows of the gravest — there is one vacant 

seat, 
Ah, late it was filled by a presence so sweet ; 
That proj^het-hearts Avhispered, when last she was 

there, 
" We soon miist relinquish a being so fair ! " 
Though I write not the name of this angel of love, 
It bears no mean place on the records above ; 
And long in our hearts will her memory live, 
The source of a sadness, which all will forgive — 
But all is now over — the sad and the gay. 
Have sung their last songs — have said their last 

say: 
The plays are all ended, the stories all told. 
They pass from the parlor, the young and the 

old: 
The beaux follow belles to see them safe home. 
How they wish that Thanksgiving would oftener 

come : 
Now all have retired — the lights are put out. 
The old have forgotten the racket and rout ; 
The seal of repose on each child's brow is set, 
And the young spirit fancies the party just mot ; 
While all that has happened seems but a brief 

dream, 
The glance of a sunbeam on Life's troubled 

stream : 



SONG FOR THANKSGIVING. 199 

As lingers a strain on the strings of a lyre, 

So, this Thanksgiving Song, and that oh;l-fash- 

ioned fire, 
Will waken fond memories of childhood's bright 

days, 
When our souls gaily basked in Hojje's golden 

rays; 
When earth with its scenes, bore a semblance 

of heaven. 
Or some fairy-land home to our young fancy 

given. 



SONG OF THE VOICES. 

The voices of the vanished years — 

I hear them speak to-day ; 
And meekly in mute reverence bend, 

To listen what they say. 

They tell of Childhood's rosy morn, 
Of Youth's fair prime, of Hope's young dawn ; 
They murmur of the checkered Past, 
They rend the veil oblivion cast. 

There come from out their dreamless bed , 
Fair forms of some, the world calls dead ; 
Close by my side I see them stand. 
With forehead white — a star-crowned band. 

They whisper — we have safely crossed 
Seas where thy bark is tempest-tossed ; 
Now robe, harp, song, and victor's crown. 
Are ours, with every ci-oss laid down. 



SONG OF THE VOICES. 201 

Life's deep and solemn mysteries, 
That once with gloom our hearts opprest, 
In heaven's light Seen, with soul serene, 
We now confess ^- God's way was best. 

Then check the tear, bid back the sigh, 
Nor grieve to see the years go by ; 
Speed on — Eternity invites. 
The soul to scale its unclimbed heights. 

O Faith — that gives to blind eyes sight — 
O Day — that knows nor cloud, nor night — 

Pearly Gates — just left ajar. 

To show the bliss that naught can mar. 

The Past is past — the Future stands, 
And beckons on, with upraised hands ; 
It points to scenes than earth more fair, 
And softly says — " 'Tis better there ! " 

So many-toned these Voices sweet, 
So wise the lessons they rejDeat ; 

1 fain would linger 'neath their spell. 
Nor toll for bygones funeral knell. 

The voices of the vanished Years — 

I hear them speak to-day ; 
And meekly, in mute reverence, bend, 

To listen what they say. 



FANCY AND FACT. 

As musing I lay on my pillow at morn, 

I thought what bright visions would fade with 

the dawn ; 
So I strove to detain them, but vain was my 

care. 
For soon they all vanished, my castles in air. 

Yet fain would we picture them, aid us, ye fays. 
Let your insj^iration give tone to our lays ; 
With quill from your pinions, what poet but 

knows, 
IIow to tinge all his dreamings with couleur de 

rose ? 

"When night first descends upon hill-top and grove. 
Then, truant-like Fancy prej^ares for a rove ; 
To Reason she says — " With thy pratings be 

still. 
Like the sex, I'm determined to have ray own 

will." 



FANCY AND FACT. 203 

So, gaily she bears us, liei' captives in chains. 
With the quickness of thought over mountains 

and plains ; 
One moment with fairies we sport on the green, 
The next in grave concourse with sages are seen. 

Where met in gay circles earth's loveliest are, 
We hear one exclaim, "Of the crowd I'm the 

star ;'■' 
Then quitting the scene, glad to wing our way 

from it, 
We soar through blue ether, much more like a 

comet. 

Though moonbeam and star-beam still bear us 

away. 
We know our bright journey must close before 

day; 
For jealous old Sol puts an end to our dreaming, 
Shows the world as it is, and scorns all false 

seeming. 

Like Midas, whose touch turned sand-dust to 

gold, 
So Fancy works wonders too great to be told ; 
Yet hints she has given of rich diadems. 
And garlands of straw changed to chajjlets of 

sems. 



204 POEMS. 

But morning returns, and serves but to show 
She has circled my brow with a bright wreath of 

snow ; 
Then gayly retiring her pinion has furled, 
And left me to cope with this working-day world. 



THE ANSWER. 

He giveth sleej) — and who is He, 
That grants this boon of love to thee ? 
Speak, Night and Silence — answering tell, 
Where doth this Benefactor dwell ? 

" He fills all si^ace — sun, moon, and star, 
All to His laws obedient are ; 
He reigns, yet deigns thy griefs to share, 
Thy daily cross with thee to bear. 

Enthroned in light, His smile is seen, 

On moss-crowned mountain, meadow green ; 

O'erarching sky, deejD rolling river, 

His name proclaim — The Boundless Giver. 

A tender heart, a gentle hand. 
Is His who waves this potent wand ; 
Shuts weary eyes long used to weep. 
To throbbing lids gives blissful sleep. 



206 POEMS. 

When i:)ulses thrill with some new joy, 
When Youth's cuj), sweet, without alloy, 
To rosy, smiling lips is given, 
Sleej) brings bright dreams of brighter heaven. 

To Him who sleeps not, slumbers never, 
Let thanks arise, unceasing ever ; 
He stoops thy wakeful eyes to close, 
Thy senses steeps in calm repose. 

At length to all, Life's brief day o'er. 
He grants one boon, ne'er given before — 
That last, long sleep, cool, dreamless, deep ; 
(While angels, smiling, vigil keep,) 
Thou then shalt know who giveth sleep." 



A REVERIE. 

The day's long toil is over, 

And calmly sets the sun ; 
As a weary racer sinks to rest, 

When the longed-for goal is won. 

Tlie bee has forgot the clover, 

The butterfly the rose ; 
Tlie bird has sought its downy nest. 

And found its sweet repose. 

The twilight shadows softly creep 
O'er valley, stream, and hill ; 

While from yon verdant meadow steals 
The note of the whii^-poor-will. 

All hushed are childhood's voices — 
Or low like a murmuring stream — 

Like melody at midnight heard, 
As it floats to the ear in dream : 



208 POEMS. 

While wafted on the perfumed air, 

Come songs of j^raise, and humble prayer — 

Thus oft in earth's blooming summer bowers, 
Is fragrance borne from the drooping flowers. 

Bright stars, like the eyes of angels, 

Look down from the azure sky ; 
Long silent Y\\i% once more unclose 

To say that the dead are nigh. 

Hush ! 'tis a holy, hallowed hour, 
The sad heart owns its soothing power ; 
Faith's eye beholds heaven's shining wall, 
And Faith's ear hears — " There's room for all." 

Hark ! to the silver bells that chime, 

The music of that far-off clime ; 

While the soul looks forth from its calm retreat. 

And smiles as it sees the two worlds meet. 



MELODY OF NATURE. 

Creation hath no spot so lone, 
So wild, and dark, and drear. 

But it hath some melodious tone 
To charm the listening ear. 

There's music in the streamlet, 

That in its gentle flow, 
Half lulls to sleep the finny tribe, 

That softly glide below. 

There's music in the ocean — 
Its low, deep tones ai*e heard. 

When into wild commotion 
Its heaving breast is stirred. 

There's music in the mountain rill, 

That on its winding way, 
Comes bounding o'er the verdant hill^ 

On some bright summer's day. 



210 POEMS. 

There's music in the evening breeze, 
That lightly fans the flowers ; 

Or rudely shakes the forest trees 
In Autumn's gloomy hours. 

There's music in the tiny shout, 
That tells of childhood's glee, 

When the young heart is gushing out 
In merry minstrelsy. 

The birds and insect throng rejoice, 
And sweet the notes they raise, 

Thus Nature, with her varied voice. 
Echoes her Maker's praise. 



KING DEATH. 

King Death is an archer fierce and strong, 

He points with unerring aim ; 
And what though his victim avoid him long? 

He is sure to track out his game. 

He laughs at the monarch's jewelled brow, 

He fears not his ghastly frown ; 
And while the monk is recording his vow, 

In the grave Death lays him down. 

He drags the prisoner from his cell, 

The peasant from his cot ; 
And he must be wise of a home to tell 

That King Death entereth not. 

He takes the babe from its mother's breast. 

The boy from his father's knee, 
And bears them away to their dreamless rest, 

Beneath the cypress tree. 



212 POEMS. 

He heeds not a sigh the maiden heaves, 

He careth naught for her tear ; 
But when tlie autumn winds sere the leaves, 

He lays her on his bier. 

The stately oak, with its branches brown, 

Like his own bow he bends ; 
And the hale young tree, with its verdant crown, 

By a single stroke he rends. 

He plucks the wreath from the victor now, 

A gasp, and then a groan ; 
And one who never had learned to bow, 

He has taught his will to own. 

The warrior brave his armor binds. 

Death sees its weakest part ; 
And through the burnished shield he finds 

His way to the soldier's heart. 

He lays the saint, whose well-spent days 

Have made him ripe for heaven, 
By the side of one whose sinful ways. 

Perchance, are unforgiven. 

In times of peace, 'mid scenes of war, 

His arrows are flying still ; 
And on he drives his conquering car, 

While his watchword is — to kill ! 



KING DEATH. 213 

King Death is a tyrant, gi-im and old, 
All must yield to his murderous sway ; 

Yet his dark deeds never can all be told, 
Till the last man has passed away. 

But when Earth shall have met her final doom, 
And old Time's dirge hath been sung ; 

King Death, the archer, shall sink to the tomb. 
And his bow never more will be strung;. 



NATAL SONG. 

Darkened the chamber, softly they tread, 
Faces bend anxiously over the bed ; 
Mute are kind voices, yet trembles the air 
With HoiDe's gentle whis2)er and Love's mur- 
mured prayer. 

Parted the curtains, joyous the tread, 

Faces bend smilingly over the bed, 

Gone is all fear, dried is the tear 

From the young mother's cheek, for baby is here. 

Joy, joy, to the home where these young darlings 

come, 
Be thornless the path where their tiny feet roara ; 
To each little stranger let welcome be given. 
For " Of such," One hath said, " is the kingdom 

of heaven." 



J. B. F. 

April 11. 

To-DAT, through memory's silent halls, 

A light footfall is heard ; 
And by its softly echoing tread, 

My soul's calm depths are stirred. 

As summer zephyr's scented breath, 
Gives fragrance to the fading wreath ; 
So now to me come thoughts of thee — 
Dear dweller by the crystal sea. 

What thou art thinking, none may say. 
This fleeting, fitful April day ; 
But thoughts thou hast — Love tells me so. 
They blend with mine of — long ago ! 

No sin, no fears, no grief, no tears, 
In heaven, thrice seven bright blissful years, 
Thy voice hath joined the angel throng 
With naught to check thy joyous song. 



216 POEMS. 

O ! wondrous alchemy divine — 
The Power, that water changed to wine, 
Dissolves the spell of death's dark night ; 
Graves hear Thy voice, "Let there be light." 

So, while beside the buried Past, 
I sit and sing, the hours speed fast — 
Dear Heart ! for her we breathe no sigh, 
She taught us how to live and die. 

O Faith, that smiles when tempests lower, 
Be mine thy overcoming power. 
To calmly wait, till solved shall be 
Of Death and Life the mystery. 



LIFE'S DUTIES. 

Life hath its duties — scorn who may, 

The mandate comes, " Go, work to-day ; 

Tlie field's the world, the labor great ; 

Time for the sluggard ne'er will wait : 

Ready or not. Death's arrows fly, 

Faithful or false is known on high : 

The golden sheaves, they only bear. 

They only crowns of victory wear, 

Who patient toil through weary years ; 

Still buoyed with Hope, though bowed with fears : 

Heaven's law of Love — when that shall We 

Man's guiding star, the world will see 

And feel this truth ; to live to bless, 

Is wisdom's way of pleasantness. 

If thou would'st share an angel's bliss, 

Then be thy earthly mission this — 

The mandate heed, that voice obey, 

Which says to all, "Go, work to-day." 



THE VEILED HOPE. 

DoM^N deep in every hiiman breast, 

Close veiled from mortal sight, 
There hidden lies some darling hope, 

That ne'er hath seen the light. 

Not always doth this cherished hojie 

Find anchorage in heaven ; 
Oft are its brightest, sweetest dreams. 

To earthly idol given. 

On altar, flower-crowned, ivy-wreathed. 

Our offering we lay. 
Then by its side we wait and watch, 

While wear the years away. 

And ever doth the fond heart sigh. 

In plaintive undertone ; 
With yearning voice — " How long, how long. 

Ere Hope may claim its own ? " 



THE VEILED HOPE. 219 

How long ? — the Futvtre qiiestion not — 

Its dark or bright unfokling 
Entrust to One — the Sculptor wise, 

Whose chisel souls is moulding. 

When Death's white hand the curtain lifts, 
Perchance his Heaven-sent mission 

May be in fairer clime to give 
Thy now veiled hope — fruition. 



THE TREE'S LESSON. 

Away, in a sunnier clime than this, 

Afar o'er the billowy sea. 
They show us a rare and a wonderful sight — 

The Pine Umbrella Tree. 

It seems, like some faithful sentinel, 
In those Temple grounds to stand ; 

The murmuring Avinds, through it, music make, 
Like the ripple of waves on the strand. 

Gay birds in its green boughs carol such songs. 
That the little ones pause 'mid their play; 

While the world-worn and weary oft turn with 
a smile. 
To hear what these " tongues in trees " say. 

Who plants of this marvellous tree the seed, 
Can ne'er hope to gaze on its flower ; 

For a hundred changeful years must pass, 
To bring: on its blossomino; hour. 



THE TREKS LESSON. 221 

The sower must lie in his bed of dust, 
As slept that brown seed long ago ; 

But of good deed done, 'neath that troj^ical sun. 
Will thousands of grateful hearts know. 

The Upas and deadly night-shade fling 

Their withering chill on the air ; 
But this tree's pure breath is a foe to death — 

It, balin-laden, banishes care. 

Youth, manhood, and age 'neath its branches 
repose. 

As glide the years silently by ; 
While the sower, perchance, looks smilingly down 

From the " sky above the sky." 

O pilgrim, so weary — O toiler, so faint — 
Take heart, for this wonderful tree, 

Thoiigh voiceless, hath speech, though dumb, it 
can teach, — 
A mentor-friend proving to thee. 

Its lesson so holy I leave thee to guess, 
E'en now hath thy soul it divined, — 

In meekness, faith, patience, in silence, hope, 
trust. 
Toil on for the good of thy kind. 



222 POEMS. 

In thought, word, and deed, sow naught but good 
seed, 
And thy life shall an evergreen bloom ; 
That thy work was done well, will the centuries 
tell. 
As they pass, 'mid their glory and gloom. 



A CAROL FOR TIME. 

Fold thy wing, Father Time, I've a carol for 

thee — 
In thy gaunt, grisly form, nothing frightful I see. 
Swing tliy sharp-cutting scythe, let thy golden 

sands run — 
Shall the toil-worn be sad that his task is half 

done? 

I chide not the years, though they fade from my 

sight. 
Like a vision of beauty, a dream of the night ; 
They ai-e scent-laden flowers, and their honey I 

sip. 
Then I bid them farewell with a smile on my lip. 

Not thornless, 'tis true, as in lost Eden's bowers, 
In Time's garden blossom the weeks, days, and 

hours ; 
But that briars are blessings, expei'ience shows, 
And Heaven sends us balm for our wounds and 

our woes. 



224 POEMS. 

What though thou dost furroAV the forehead with 

care, 
Twine silvery threads in the glossy brown hair ; 
Bid the stejD lose its lightness, the heart be less 

It w^ere wisdom to welcome this outward decay. 

As Nature's voice pierces its rayless abode. 
Bids the chrysalis worm dro]) its cumbersome load; 
So Time calls us forth from our dungeons of clay, 
To pour on our darkness the glad light of day. 

When a friend breaks his chain, should the cap- 
tive complain. 

Spurn proffer of freedom and country again ; 

We justly might deem him ungrateful, untrue, 

And false to the land where his first breath he 
drew. 

The storm-beaten mariner, nearing his home, 
What recks he how wildly the billows may foam ? 
Though shattered his vessel and tattered her sail, 
With faith in the pilot, he sings in the gale. 

An exile — I'm glad that the months quickly pass. 
That each falling sand leaves one less in Time's 
Qflass : 



A CAROL FOB TIME. 225 

With the worm from her j^rison my sj^irit would 

soar — 
Speed, Time, waft my baric to Eternity's shore. 

Then hail, Father Time, with thy locl:s floating 

free 
As waves the gray moss from the tall forest tree ; 
Life's pathway is gemmed with bright memories 

rare, 
No hand but thine own could have scattered 

them there. 

But bribe him I may not — no, old Father Time 
Will not list to my wooing, or stay for my 

rhyme ; 
For while tuning my harp, he has borne me along. 
Nor folded his wing to give heed to my song. 



GLIMPSES. 

Vive memor Lethi. 

We walk no new, untravelled way, 
Through dust and darkness unto day. 

Fears haunt us here, and doubts assail, 
There's rest within the shadowy vale. 

Fair forms from out the silent Past, 
Pause, bend, and beckon, gliding fast. 

Low voices stealing on the ear, 

Breathe gentle words of peace and cheer. 

Hoj^e, radiant-browed, sings, robed in white, 
Of no more pain, and no more night. 

Faith smiling stoops, with outstretched hand. 
To lead us to the Unseen Land. 

Time's touch, that withers all things here, 
Mars naught in that celestial s^jhere. 



GLIMPSES. 227 



No changing seasons dim the light 

Of stars that peep through ether bright. 

Fair as they shone on Eden bowers 
They glint above these homes of ours. 



Smiling through tears, we gaze on them, 
And think of star-crowned Bethlehem. 

Dim must the eye be, deaf the ear, 
Which cannot see, that will not hear ; 

"When each frail flower some moral teaches, 
Each Autumn leaf a sermon j^reaches. 

From withered grass, from garnered grain, 
From gathered fruit, comes this refrain — 

Our Heaven-appointed earth-work done. 
We pass from sight, as sets the sun. 

Change is Progression, all things show,^ 
And death is birth, as all shall know. 



MY SONG. 

I BREATHE no sigb o'ei' days gone by, 
Nor would I mourn my vanished joys ; 
'Tis a childish part to vex the heart, 
O'er faded pictures, broken toys. 

And yet, not always have my feet 
Trod thornless patlis, 'mid flowers sweet 
But ever have the passing years 
Behind them left more smiles than tears. 

The stately oak, with branches bared, 
Smiles at the storm it proudly dared ; 
The rock the raging billow laves, 
Laughs at the foe its firm base braves. 

Earth hath no home, grief darkens not, 
And though I share the common lot ; 
I humbly trust, I'm wiser grown, 
For every pang my heart hath known. 



MY SONG. 229 

Each thwarted plan and blighted hope, 
Nerves me with future ill to cope ; 
And every bitter cuj) seems given, 
To sweeten thought of rest and heaven. 

The web of life hath mingled hues, 
"Which should prevail, I dare not choose ; 
Enough that in my every care, 
I've met an angel unaware. 

The way to Paradise must be 

By Calvary, through Gethsemane, 

Then what though clouds above me lower — 

Can I not watch with Him one hour ? 

As speeds from well-trained hand the stone, 
So quickly life's brief day is flown ; 
With scarce a ripj^le on Time's wave. 
Between the cradle and the grave. 

As best for all — may coming years 
Blend sun and shadow, smiles and tears ; 
Each life is part of one great plan — 
So ends my song, as it began. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

To him was thus the mandate spoken — 
Now let the golden bowl be broken — 
His guardian angel heard unawed, 
And smiling, loosed the silver cord. 

He passed, as sinks the o'erwearied sun, 
When summer's sultry day is done ; 
Then bear him gently to his rest. 
The bright flowers blooming on his breast. 

Toll, sadly toll — O fimeral bell. 
For one the true heart loved so well ; 
Let Hope's bow span the hallowed sod, 
O'er him, who sleeping, rests in God. 



QUESTIONINGS. 

Which will it be ? ah, which will it be ? 
O ! which in our sweet, sweet home of three, 
Will first hear the dip of the Boatman's oar. 
The Boatman that rows to the other shore ? 

Which first will the grave's dark mystery learn ? 
Which two to the lonely home return ? 
O'er whose breast first will the violets spring, 
And the birds their matins and vespers sing ? 

Which first o'er the silent sea will sail ? 
Whose feet first tread the shadowy vale ? 
Which first will join the angel throng ? 
Whose voice first blend in their joyous song? 

Whose hand will first sweep a golden lyre ? 
Which first heed the mandate " Come up 

higher?" 
Who first will be missed from the vacant seat ? 
Which first will walk the shinina: street ? 



232 POEMS. 

Who first will the robe of the ransomed wear, 
In a land where they never know grief or care V 
Which first will pass through the pearly gate, 
Where the loved for the loving ones smiling 
wait ? 

Whose eyes will first gaze on the crystal sea. 
And the place where the many mansions be ? 
Whose lips will first echo the glad refrain. 
Of no more night, and no more pain ? 

Which first will it be ? in earth, air, sky, 
Will none to my questioning heart reply — 
As noiselessly steal away weeks, days, hours. 
Still ripening the fruits and unfolding the flowers : 

Till chill Avinds of Autumn their beauty shall 

blast, 
And Winter her snowy shroud over them cast ? 
I waited and hearkened in stillness unbroken. 
Till deep in my soul, were these mentor words 

spoken — 

" What matter to thee, in thy sweet home of three. 
Which first shall set sail on the silent sea? 
Heed, listen, and learn — the stars blaze and burn, 
They rise, fade, and vanish, each, all in their turn : 



QUESTIONINGS. 233 

Like thera, let thy pathway be luminous, bright, 
Unresting, live only for God, and the Right ; 
And seek not to fathom this deep mystery — 
For Time shall yet tell thee — which first it will 
be!" 



MIZPAH. 

MizPAH ! how this gentle word, 

By lips of Friendshi]) spoken ; 
Can touch the heart's most tender chord, 

Like the sight of Love's last token, 

Mizpah. 

It softly knells the farewell hour, 

Yet tinges grief with gladness ; 
And blends with memory's rainbow hues, 

A sombre shade of sadness. 

Mizpali. 

Mizpah ! in this watchword strong. 

The Past and Future meet ; 
While standing with wide oj)en arms. 

The Present smiles the two to greet. 

Mizpah. 

Of hope and trust, this Mizpah breathes, 
It rosebuds twines with Autumn leaves ; 
Then humbly asks a Higher Power, 
To shield us both, when tempests lower. 

Mizpah. 



MIZPAII. 235 

Mizpah ! when life's end draws near, 

How sweet this murmured prayer to hear — 

" On either side the silent sea, 

God watch between us, thee and me." 

Mizpah. 



WHICH IS BEST ? 

Iisr sadness to sigh for the pleasures of youth ? 
Or, with souls wiser grown, taking counsel of 

Truth, 
Wlnle pluming our wings for a flight from our 

cage, 
To joyfully sing of the pleasures of age. 

O ! not till the day's long toil is done. 
And the gathering shades of night steal on ; 
Do the stars look down, through yon azure vault 

flying, 
Bright, passionless, calm, like the eyes of the 

dying. 

From a fevered dream as the weary one wakes, 
When health the strong fetters of suffering 

bi-eaks ; 
To the chastened soul, seems a new power given, 
Rightly to weigh the worlds, earth and heaven. 

We say — 'tis well to launch a bark, 

That shall plough the wide sea, cold and dark ; 



WEIGH IS BEST? 237 

And breast the current of wind and wave, 
Though its doom may be an ocean grave: 

But is it not better to furl the sail 

Of a ship that has weathered many a gale ; 

And calmly sit with the Port in view 

And praise the Pilot who steered us through ? 

When our cup of joy to the brim is filled, 

And the mentor voice within is stilled ; 

E'en then, the heart sighs for the rest that re- 
mains. 

For those pleasures which ne'er are embittered 
by pains. 

Who questions — which best is — the conflict's 

strife, 
The hoarse cry half-muttered of " Life for life ;" 
Or the rest that follows the battle's roar, 
And the song of jDcace, on either shore ? 

Then what though life seem but a bright starry 

gleam, 
A sweet cup just tasted, a battle, a dream ; 
A sail on an ocean to harbor vmknown ? 
Faith smiling points u^Dward, and Hope beckons 

"On!" 



IF THOU KNEWEST. 

If thou knewest, only knewest, 
Who it is that seeks to win thee, 
From the path of wrong and sorrow ; 
Breathing hojse of brighter morrow ; 

Thou would' St bow thy stubborn will ; 
That thy life-cup He might fill, 
With the living water pure. 
With the peace that will endure. 

If thou knewest of the gladness 
That shall take the place of sadness ; 
When the soul from guilt set free, 
Bathes in light and purity : 

If thou knewest, only knewest, 
That to break the chains of sin ; 
And the heart's closed door to open. 
Lets the heavenly Healer in : 



IF THOU KNEW EST. 239 

If thou knewest — temj^ted soul, 
Take courage, He can make thee whole, 
Then, thou, like her at Sychar's well, 
The story of the Christ shalt tell. 



EUTHANASIA. 

We read of a far-away island, so fair, 

The death-angel's shadow ne'er darkened aught 

there ; 
So its dwellers live on, bowed with age and with 

care. 

They long to be gone — 'neath life's burden they 

sigh; 
They crave but one blessing — they ask but to die, 
And they grieve that the Good One their prayer 

should deny. 

A bright vision only that island must prove ; 
A region where naught but the fancy may rove. 
For through no paths like those did e'er human 
feet move. 

Yet, we're booked for a journey — the mandate 

reads so, 
How long we may travel One only can know, 
But Love points the arrow that biddeth each go. 



EUTHANASIA, 241 

The road may be rough, but 'tis quickly passed 

o'er ; 
The billows may rage, but they waft to the 

shore ; 
And once safely moored, storms will vex us no 

more. 

So we pass on unfearing, for eye hath not seen 
The place that's prepared, and long waiting hath 

been, 
With azure sky, cloudless and nightless, serene. 

To picture the dwellers there, pen may not 

dare, 
'Tis enough that no sin ever sheds its blight 

where 
All pure are, and holy, and happy, and fair. 

The way would be lonely, sad, desolate, drear, 
Were it not through the darkness our Guide's 

voice we hear — 
Though soft be His whisper, it calms every fear 

My rebel thought, question not Heaven's de- 
cree. 
It worse were than useless to murmur or flee. 
For wisdom, not chance, rules the soul's destiny 



242 POEMS. 

Yes, booked for a journey — our first infant 

breath, 
Is signal and sign of life's compact with death ; 
The rose and the cypress are twined in one 

wreath. 

So, trustingly, tranquilly, move we along. 
With faith in our Leader, with Hope in our song, 
Who sends us, recalls, and He doeth none 
wronff. 



PEDIGREE. 

" What's iu a name ? " 

Ere I can grant the boon you ask, 

And aid you in your gentle task ; 

I first must weave tlie magic si:)ell, 

Which brings a draught from Truth's deep well. 

To me, fame, honor, pedigree. 
Seem but like leaves on yonder tree. 
They bud and flourish, fade and die. 
Then in one common grave they lie. 

The stately oak — the forest king, 
In whose green boughs the robins sing ; 
The flowering shrub, whose branches wave 
In fragrance o'er the tiniest grave : 

All, all are equal in His sight, 
Wlio only sees the Wrong and Right ; 
Condemns the first, the last approves, 
Oft chidinsr most where most He loves. 



244 POEMS. 

A certain esculent, they say, 
On tables seen from clay to day ; 
Much like some families is found, 
The better part is under ground. 

To this opinion I incline, 
And cheerfully the verdict sign ; 
E'en though oblivion's sullen wave 
My name consign to nameless grave. 

What though no human pen record 
The lineage of peasant, lord ? 
A regal soul, and modest worth. 
Far, far outweigh the pride of birth. 

In yon blue arch, the tiniest star 
That now gleams faintly from afar, 
May in some constellation bright. 
Reign King of Day or Queen of Night : 

And souls who self have crucified, 
Survive, when perish pom]^ and pride, — 
"Who toil for others, and for God, 
Their memory blooms, like Aaron's rod ; 

And Phoenix-like, their very dust 
Shall live, like him men called — " The Just." 
For Christ-like heart, and Heaven-taught mind, 
Nor chains, nor death, can hold or bind. 



PEDIGIiEE. 245 

So, when you ask for items, dear. 
Ancestral monument to rear ; 
I smiling think — " Vain hope, to see 
An earthly immortality ! " 



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